


to know a man

by moonix



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - No Exy, First Times, Kevin is just here for comic relief sorry not sorry I love him I swear, M/M, Neil learns how to stop running, Nicky is a constant delight, Pining, Renee knows everything and does embroidery, Slow Burn, lots of tender smooching happens (later), neil is a mess, tea is an appropriate response to all sorts of emergencies, who even is Riko Moriyama, wooing with music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-23 08:24:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 47,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9647963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonix/pseuds/moonix
Summary: In which the Foxes all work at a coffee shop run by Wymack, Neil is their newest recruit with a dark past, Andrew is obvious, Neil is oblivious, and everyone ships it apart from Aaron, who just wants to study in peace. With guest appearance by a stuffed jellyfish called Josephine.





	1. Welcome To The Club

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings: flashbacks/mentions of canon-typical violence, abuse and rape, but no graphic descriptions and none of it happens in the timeline of this story; discussion of scars and self-harm scars; brief mention of suicide; description of panic attacks; a non-consensual kiss; one short scene contains physical assault. If you need any specifics or think there is anything I should include here, don't hesitate to contact me! I'll try to include relevant warnings at the beginning of each chapter as well.
> 
> A lot of events and backstory from canon are recycled in here, but there is some divergence, the timeline is different, everyone is a bit older and Neil doesn't meet the Foxes until after his father is dead and he enters Witness Protection. If anything is unclear or you have any questions, let me know!
> 
> Title is from the song It Takes A Lot To Know A Man by Damien Rice.
> 
> Chapters will be posted roughly once a week? I think? It's finished in any case, I just need some time to edit them. On this note, THANK YOU to capncrystal for the super speedy beta and Ameripicking despite my refusal to ever spell pyjamas with an a. Ever.
> 
> !!!!NOW WITH [AMAZING AND BEAUTIFUL ART](http://broship-addict.tumblr.com/post/158817428762/i-treated-myself-and-read-the-50k-coffee-shop) BY BROSHIP-ADDICT GO CHECK IT OUT!!!!

Neil grabs the duffel bag and sets it on the mattress.

He packs. Five shirts. One pair of jeans. Underwear. Socks. Hoodie. Sweatpants. The bag of toiletries, with his spare contacts and a packet of hair dye. Two small towels. Money. Water bottle. Granola bars. First aid kit and a small flask of alcohol. Pocket knife. Wallet. Extra cash. Lighter. He's long since perfected the art of whittling down his possessions to the bare minimum of what he needs to survive. There is a list in his head of supplementary items, things he can buy or scrounge at gas stations if pressed – a map, cigarettes, food, paper towels. He zips the bag shut and tests its weight to judge how long he can run with it slung over his shoulder. On the floor beside the mattress, a cheap alarm clock starts beeping quietly, the orange glow of the numbers on the display like a warning in the bluesy light of five o'clock.

With a sigh, Neil puts the duffel bag down again and unzips it with shaking fingers. He makes himself go through the motions of taking everything back out, stacks the clothes on the single, three-legged chair in the room, takes his toiletries into the bathroom, lines everything else up by the alarm clock, which he silences with a tap of his foot. The wallet, lighter and knife he pockets before cracking open the window so he can watch his last cigarette burn down to the filter, its smoke licking a hazy path up into the overcast day. He stubs it out on the stained window sill and flicks it down, watching as it lands on the fire escape that he could just about reach from this window if he were desperate enough to risk a sprained ankle.

It's been a week since Witness Protection moved him here. Nine days since the death of Nathan Wesninski, and seven for Nathaniel Wesninski to get used to being Neil Josten. He has a mattress, a chair, one set of bed sheets, a kettle, one stripy blue mug. The apartment comes with a small kitchenette, but Neil has made do with takeaway food and plastic forks so far. His morning ritual of packing the duffel bag now completed, he makes himself a cup of coffee and drinks half a bottle of water, eats a banana and a granola bar, then brushes his teeth over the kitchen sink, because there is a mirror in the bathroom and his hands are still too fucked from Lola's knives to pry it off the wall. It's a daily chore to shower and redo his bandages in there, and he turns the water as hot as it will go so the mirror stays fogged up.

Today, the impulse to run is stronger than ever.

“Get it together, Josten,” he murmurs, grabbing his keys. He locks the door behind him and goes, squashing down the panic at leaving his duffel bag behind. It's not as cold anymore as it was an hour ago, when he went for his morning run, but he still hunches into his hoodie and tucks his hands into its front pocket, keeping his head down to avoid people's stares at the mess that Lola made of his face. He should get a tattoo, he thinks, and the familiar fizz of hysteria bubbles up briefly in his chest. He can't get a tattoo. He can't make himself recognisable like that.

Something catches on his bandages inside the pocket and he pulls out a crumpled slip of paper with an address. He's had it memorised ever since Agent Browning gave it to him, and Neil suppresses the urge to set fire to it and stuffs it into a pocket of his jeans instead, hissing at the scratch of denim on his blistered knuckles. The coffee shop isn't exactly within walking distance of his apartment, but he walks there anyway, since it's early and he doesn't want to waste money on a bus. The way is familiar now, after he's walked there and back every day since they gave him the address, but Neil still shivers at the sight of the bright orange sign looming out of the mist before him. He glances at his watch. Two hours until they open.

He pulls his hoodie tighter around himself and settles on a bench in the sparse patch of green across from the Foxhole to wait, dry leaves crunching under the weight of his body when he pulls his knees up to his chest.

*

The man who comes to unlock the front door of the coffee shop an hour later is the same one Neil has observed every morning so far. The broad shoulders, faded tribal flame tattoos on his bared arms, and grizzly hair and beard make him look like an ageing lion. As usual, he has to step back outside to grind his cigarette into the asphalt with the heel of his peeling sneakers, as if he forgets every day that the coffee shop he owns is non-smoking, but today, he looks up before going back inside and spots Neil standing a few paces away.

“So,” he says, his voice gravelly and pleasant, yet Neil still flinches away from it. “You finally decided to come in?”

“I need a job,” Neil finds himself saying, still keeping himself just out of arm's reach of the man. His own voice is threadbare with disuse.

“Don't we all,” is the only answer he gets, but the man leaves the door open behind him, and Neil swiftly follows him in before it swings closed. He looks around, mapping out the room that he's seen through the windows, noting escape routes and hiding spots before he's snapped out of the knee-jerk reaction by banging and scraping as the man swings a couple of chairs off the table nearest the counter. He pats the honey-brown wood like an invitation, and Neil chooses the seat with the best view of both the counter and the door.

“Coffee?” the man grunts, but doesn't wait for a reply before busying himself behind the counter. Neil pulls the sleeves of his hoodie down over his hands and waits, bouncing his leg. He can almost feel his mother pinching his thigh under the table, twisting her fingers in painfully until it stills, and Neil has to dig his own fingers into the same spot just to make the phantom pain stop.

“David Wymack,” the man says as he sets two heavy mugs down on the table and lowers himself into the chair opposite. There's a bright orange apron slung over the counter, but he hasn't put it on yet. His knitted sweater boasts a row of lopsided orange foxes and paw prints, a joke present maybe, although looking at the man's forbidding expression makes him think Wymack isn't the type of guy to appreciate jokes. The man notices him looking and twitches an eyebrow before turning his attention on his coffee. “Your turn, kid.”

“Neil Josten,” Neil makes himself say without hesitating, and adds, unnecessarily, “I'm here for the job.”

“Yeah? What makes you think I have one?” Wymack says. His nose is crooked in a way that tells Neil it's been broken at least once, and he's almost as fast in finishing his coffee as Neil is. Neil doesn't say anything, and Wymack looks at the mess of his face with something like tiredness in his gaze.

“You ever worked a coffee machine?”

Neil has – he's cycled through a lot of different low profile jobs during his time on the run – but his screwed up hands don't want to cooperate today. He fumbles half the orders Wymack barks out at him, and after five beverages are lined up on the counter waiting for non-existent customers, Neil has to pause and stretch his aching wrist. He's determined to ignore it if Wymack is willing to give him a chance, but Wymack only sighs and shows him how to work the till instead, then sets him to the task of moving the chairs off the tables. Five minutes to eight, Wymack throws one of the orange aprons at him, and Neil is so distracted for a moment that he flinches when the door is abruptly swept open by a guy wearing plum purple skinny jeans and an oversized pair of sunglasses.

“Morning, boss,” the newcomer chirps, then does a double-take when he sees Neil and pushes his sunglasses up into his dark hair. “Do mine eyes deceive me? Boss, have you hired fresh meat?”

“You're late,” Wymack greets him. “Haul your ass behind the counter, you're on coffee duty until your fingers bleed, Hemmick.”

“Nicky,” he corrects, flashing a grin at Neil and taking a little mock bow. “My lattes bring all the boys to the yard. And you are...?”

“Neil,” Neil says flatly, and fails to tie the strings on his apron for a second time. He thinks it's probably a good idea to play nice and have an ally here, even if Nicky is currently looking at him like he's the last slice of blueberry pie on the platter and it makes Neil's skin crawl, so he adds: “This is my first day.”

“No shit,” Nicky laughs. He steps into Neil's space and crowds him up against the wall, but before Neil's flight instincts have finished kicking in, Nicky has taken the strings of his apron and tied them into a neat bow. He winks again, then moves to pull himself up onto the counter and swings his legs over it before landing swiftly on his feet in front of the coffee machine. “Right. Wymack show you the ropes yet? Let's get this party started.”

At eight a.m. sharp, Wymack flicks the sign to 'open', and what feels like five seconds later, there's a queue from the door to the counter, and Neil loses track of time taking their orders and their money. Nicky is a purple and orange whirlwind behind him, magicking drinks onto the counter, smiling and flirting and charming like he was born to do it, while Neil has to force his face into some semblance of polite neutrality and ignore the open stares at his bandages.

By the time the morning rush begins to thin out, Neil's hands are shaking with the effort of keeping himself from dumping hot coffee over the next person to gape at his cheek.

“You look like you're two seconds away from committing a murder,” Nicky murmurs, appearing at his side when the last customer in line trots off with her cappuccino. There's a steady hum of conversation in the room, and the windows have fogged up from the warmth that has built up in the cramped space with so many people coming and going. “Get out of here,” Nicky tells him with a smile, his eyes barely lingering on the bandage over Neil's cheek. “You haven't had a break in four hours. There's a back door that leads into the courtyard.”

Neil only nods his thanks and goes.

The courtyard is bleak and depressing, but thankfully empty save for a scruffy looking cat sneaking around the cluster of bins in a corner. Neil sits on the stairs and pulls out the fresh packet of cigarettes he bought on the way over, lights one, and holds it clumsily between his trembling fingers. He takes a deep breath, inhaling the smoke that curls up and drifts away on the breeze. A few dried leaves tumble over the bare ground and he shivers, not used to the cold anymore after the damp heat of the coffee shop.

The afternoon isn't much better, but Nicky starts coming up with ridiculous stories about Neil's injuries and tells every staring customer a different one with his trademark charming smile and wink. He never asks what the real story is, and Neil doesn't tell. On his lunch break, Wymack introduces Neil to Abby, their baker, and lets Neil fix himself a sandwich in the small kitchen while he takes over the till. Nicky takes his break after, but sticks to coffee and cheerfully says “hangover” when Neil notices.

Neil loses track of time again.

When he next looks up at the clock, he's lost two more hours and his hand is cramping up. Nicky is taking off his apron and handing it over to a girl with curly short hair and a fierce mouth, and Neil watches them exchange words in a daze, not hearing any of them, until Wymack claps his hand on his shoulder and Neil nearly jumps out of his skin. His heart is thudding painfully in his chest and judging by the look on Wymack's face, he's being a little too obvious about his issues.

“Your shift's over,” Wymack says gently, not touching him again. “Go home, kid. You can come back at seven thirty tomorrow and Dan'll put you on the schedule for next week.”

He hands over a stack of papers, which Neil numbly takes. Another minute passes before Nicky ushers him out of the way so the new girl – Dan – can take over the coffee machine, and Neil leaves his apron in the kitchen with Abby and follows Nicky out on unsteady legs. There's a sleek, expensive car idling at the curb and Nicky heads straight for it, his sunglasses firmly back in place despite the overcast day, so Neil turns away to begin his walk home, but then Nicky calls after him.

“Hey, Scarface! Need a ride?” He ducks down to say something to the driver, then straightens up again and looks at him expectantly.

“Thanks,” Neil forces himself to say, clutching his contract to his chest, “but I'm fine. Maybe another day.”

Nicky shrugs and salutes him, gets into the car and is gone before Neil has unstuck his feet from the pavement again.

*

Neil jerks awake from a nightmare and doesn't recognise his surroundings. He lies in the dark, forcing himself to breathe through the terror and the acrid smoke in his lungs, until the shapes of the room around him realign into something he knows. 4:34 a.m. stares unblinking from the face of the alarm clock and Neil lets himself drift for a moment before heaving his heavy limbs out of bed and into the bathroom. He doesn't turn on the light, even though it's still dark out.

When he walks into the Foxhole three hours later, legs aching from his morning run and hair still wet from the shower, Wymack isn't there, but the short-haired girl waves at him from behind the counter where she's arranging Abby's cakes in the display case. She introduces herself as Dan, takes his signed contract and files it away in Wymack's office, to which she has a key because apparently she is the Foxhole's assistant manager, and hands him one of the orange aprons to put on over his sweater. Like Nicky, she doesn't ask about his injuries. They open up together, working in comfortable silence, with Dan sometimes showing or explaining something to him, but Neil is grateful for the absence of exhausting small talk. Up close, Dan looks like someone who is used to staying up long nights, and Neil can sympathise with that.

“Who else have you met?” Dan asks him as she flips the sign to 'open'. It's still not quite light outside, and Neil is standing behind the till, hands cradled around a mug of coffee and staring unseeingly at the wet, murky dawn beyond the windows.

“Nicky,” he says, clearing his throat when his voice cracks at the edges. “And Abby.”

He can hear voices in the kitchen, and then a dark-skinned girl with bleached white braids and pastel rainbow tips sticks her head in to say hello. Her orange apron clashes wildly with her hair, and Dan introduces her as Renee. Renee flashes Neil a soft grin, tucks her silver cross necklace under the collar of her shirt, and disappears again to finish making sandwiches before the morning rush hits. Neil lets the first onslaught of customers wash over him, counting money and setting trays while Dan makes the drinks, clearing tables whenever there's a break in the queue, and smiling hollow smiles at faces that blur into the dim light of the day as soon as he looks away from them. It's almost soothing, now that his fingers know their way around behind the counter and he knows what to expect. Dan chats about the little leagues rugby team she coaches and her volunteer work at a nearby youth centre, and Neil nods and manages to ask a few questions, but avoids talking about himself as much as he can, and then Dan sends him on his break and he sits on the back stairs again, methodically eating his way through two apples and a couple of protein bars.

“Hello, mind if I join you?”

He looks up from his last apple and shrugs in response to Renee's polite question. She sits down next to him, flicks her long braids over her shoulder and unwraps her sandwich with delicate fingers. Before she eats, she puts her hands together in a short, silent prayer.

“You're very quiet,” Renee observes after a few moments. “Don't get me wrong, it's a nice change. The rest of us can be quite boisterous.”

“Nicky?” Neil guesses, and Renee nods.

“All of them, really. The twins not so much, of course, and Kevin only gets loud when he's angry, which is rather often. You'll see in time.” She bites into her sandwich and takes her time chewing, looking out over the deserted courtyard. A tall chestnut tree stands just beyond the fence that separates this property from the next, and the leaves that litter the yard are curled up at the edges, like pleading hands.

Neil starts to get up, but Renee puts out her hand, letting it hover just over his wrist to stop him without actually touching him. Neil is grateful, but wonders if Wymack said anything to them about him, if he warned them that Neil is – not quite right. He feels like it's written all over his face, in the gridwork of cuts and burns that mark him.

“Neil,” Renee smiles, “we're happy to have you here. The Foxhole is a second home for many of us, you see? We're family, of a sort. So if you ever need anything, do let us know, will you?”

“I – yes,” Neil lies, “thank you.”

She lets him go, satisfied with his answer for now, and Neil all but runs back inside.

*

He meets Kevin and the twins on his fourth day. Dan has assigned him morning shifts for the most part, which is fine with Neil, and he's just starting to feel like he's pulling his weight now that he doesn't have to ask for help every time a customer orders a slightly less conventional drink. Neil is early like usual, but when he comes in, Kevin has already got the coffee shop ready to open despite the fact that they still have over half an hour. He barely introduces himself, eyes fixed on the coffee machine in front of him, turning a cup this way and that under the spout with his right hand. His left is clenched up in a fist, and Neil can see the puckered seams of scars on his otherwise smooth brown skin.

Neil goes to fetch himself an apron from the kitchen, where Abby is talking to two identical blond boys in black clothes. One of them is perched on the counter, flour dusted over his black armbands, stealing bits of unbaked pie crust from Abby's work surface, and the other is scrutinising the contents of the large fridge in the back, an apron slung over his shoulder.

“Oh! You must be Neil,” the one with the armbands says, pointing a floury finger at him. He has a smile that looks like the blade of a knife flashing in the sun and his jeans are tucked into heavy boots that tap a steady rhythm against the cupboard door under the counter. “I can see why Wymack hired you, hmm?” He taps his cheek in the spot where Neil's burn scars are still hidden under their bandage, even though the nurse at the hospital told him he should let them air by now. “Let me guess. Your parents? A street fight? No, no, that can't be right. I'm sticking with parents, you have that haunted look. Well?”

Neil stares blankly at him. Abby clucks her tongue in disapproval and bats the boy's fingers away from her pie crust, but he snags another piece when she turns away to fetch the filling.

“Never mind Andrew,” Abby tells him. “He's like this with everyone at first. Aaron, get your filthy hands out of my fridge, I'll make you a sandwich in a moment.”

“At first?” Andrew scoffs, picking up an apple from a nearby basket and tossing it into the air. Abby catches it and puts it back in the basket. “I must be losing my touch. Well, if you're just going to stand there and look traumatised, _Neil_ , I am going to go and see if Kevin's managed to break his other hand yet. Excuse me.”

Andrew hops off the counter, briefly wipes some flour off his arms, and steps past Neil with a smirk, waggling his fingers at him. He is, impossibly, even smaller than Neil, but his shoulders are broad and he looks like he regularly hits the gym, the smooth curved lines of his biceps showing under the tight sleeves of his shirt. At the other end of the kitchen, Aaron stops turning the fridge's contents inside out and slams the door shut with a disgusted noise to follow his brother out into the café.

“Sorry about them,” Abby says, scrunching up her nose in apology. She's wearing a bright orange bandanna to hold her frizzy hair out of her face while she works, and there are two golden apple pies baking in the oven, filling the kitchen with a warm, cosy smell.

“It's fine,” Neil says automatically. “I should get to work.”

He's still shaken by Andrew's question and his guess of the answer, especially because no one else has outright asked Neil about his bandages so far, not even Nicky with his indirect probing. There are several different stories wedged in Neil's mind that he can recite if pressed, all of them lies, but he has a feeling Andrew is going to see right through him if he resorts to one of them. When he emerges into the front room, Kevin is still standing at the coffee machine, a row of cups scattered over the worktop beside him, all decorated with beautiful, intricate latte art – a swan, a pumpkin, vines, flowing shapes and patterns. Aaron has taken up residence at a corner table, pulling textbooks from his bag, and Andrew, leaning against the counter, notices Neil looking at the cups, picks one up and knocks it back without sparing a single glance at the art.

“Kevin used to be world latte art vice champion,” Andrew explains with a lazy flick of his wrist, picks up the next cup, and dumps it out into the sink. “Second only to Riko Moriyama. They learned together under Riko's dear uncle, Tetsuji, and Kevin should have scored first place, but he held back so as not to step on precious Riko's ego – even that was too much for Riko, though, and he broke Kevin's hand after the championships this summer.”

He holds up his left hand in demonstration, tracing lines to show where Kevin's had fractured, then goes back to pouring Kevin's macchiatos down the drain. Neil looks to Kevin, who has switched to his left hand now, but the attempts are shaky and Kevin's face is screwed up in frustration.

“Hey, you could give me one of those,” Aaron grumbles, coming up behind the counter to snatch one of the coffees before Andrew can dispose of it. “It's still good coffee.”

Andrew flips him the bird, but Aaron only shrugs and goes back to his table with his coffee cradled in his hands. He has the afternoon shift today, and Neil isn't sure what he's doing here already, but it looks like he brought homework and is getting settled in his corner.

“Moriyama,” Neil says into the silence, something itching at the back of his mind. “Don't they own that big coffee shop chain, uh...”

“Edgar Allan, yes,” Andrew says. Despite his deep voice, the words sound like random notes coaxed from a piano by a distracted hand. “How far dear Kevin has sunk, to be working at the lowly Foxhole now. Intriguing, don't you think?”

Kevin slams down his last macchiato, sloshing it over the sides. “Enough,” he says, “we have work to do. Andrew, don't you have to be in the kitchen by now?”

Andrew laughs. It is the least humorous sound Neil has ever heard, including his father's low chuckle when he was about to get out his cleaver, and he makes sure to get out of Andrew's way in case he does go back to the kitchen.

“Abby doesn't want me eating her scraps,” Andrew shrugs. “Don't be boring, Kevin. Oh wait – that's your default setting. Maybe annoying Abby is a better use of my time right now, considering Blue Eyes here is being just as disappointing. Do better next time, Neil, will you? I am looking forward to learning all your secrets.”

“You can trade me some of yours,” Neil finds himself saying without planning to, and for a fleeting moment, Andrew's eyes widen in something akin to surprise.

“Well,” he says, recovering quickly. The awful smile is back, and Andrew wipes the pad of his thumb along his bottom lip in consideration. “Now that's more like it. See you on the back steps for lunch.”

With that, he's gone, and when Neil doesn't get a reaction from either Aaron or Kevin, who is still glaring at the coffee machine, he goes to flip the sign to 'open' and takes up his usual spot behind the register.

*

It doesn't take him long to find out that Kevin is a beast to work with. He criticises everything from the way Neil arranges cutlery to how long it takes him to count out change, he rants for ten minutes about Neil's system of stacking empty cups and plates when he clears the tables, and refuses to even let Neil near the coffee machine once. By the time his lunch break rolls around, Neil is biting the insides of his cheeks to keep himself from lashing out, and his shirt sticks to his back with sweat. It's a relief to step out into the cool courtyard at last, twenty minutes later than he was supposed to, but he stops short when he sees Andrew smoking on the steps, a black cloth tied around his head and more flour dusting his front.

“Took you long enough,” Andrew says, blowing smoke at him when Neil sits down.

“Kevin wouldn't let me go,” Neil feels the need to explain. He takes out the leftover curry he couldn't eat last night and a banana, splitting the skin with his fingernail so he can peel it. Andrew watches him, absently tracing his own cheek with the tip of his thumb, mirroring the outline of Neil's bandages, and Neil tries and fails not to let it get to him.

“Aren't you going to heat that up?” Andrew asks, sounding bored, and indicates the container of cold curry in Neil's lap as Neil takes a bite of his banana. Neil shrugs. He doesn't much care if his food is hot or cold, so long as he has some. He eats his banana first, a relic from his time on the run – there was always the possibility of being interrupted, so Neil made a habit of starting with the best bits, just in case he had to abandon his meal. He still eats too fast, one arm curled around his plate like he's guarding it, but he's working on that, or should be, anyway.

Andrew waits until Neil has finished eating, which doesn't take long, and then offers him his pack of cigarettes. Neil takes one and lights it, holding it between his fingers over the empty carton of curry by his feet, and Andrew lights a second one for himself, taking a deep drag.

“So,” he says, “your little trade suggestion. Are we going to play?”

“What, a secret for a secret?” Neil asks, something hot and sour bubbling up in his stomach at the idea of giving away any of the ugly truths he's been clutching close to his heart for so long now that he's forgotten how to even articulate them. Then he looks at Andrew, whose gaze is unimpressed and steady, a weight on Neil's shoulder that should be unnerving, but is almost reassuring in that moment. “Alright,” he finds himself saying, “let's play.”

Andrew grins, pressing his thumb against his lower lip. “I'm going to take the first turn,” he says. “Was I right?”

He gestures at Neil's cheek, and Neil thinks about it for a moment. The heavy weight of the words settles on his tongue before he has made the decision to speak.

“Sort of,” he says, and Andrew accepts that with a nod.

“Show me,” he demands.

“It's my turn now,” Neil reminds him, flicking ash off his cigarette and letting his gaze roam the courtyard while he figures out what he wants to ask. The stray cat is back, nosing through a pile of leaves with its tail high in the air. Neil wishes he had something to feed it.

“What did you mean when you said you could see why Wymack hired me?” he finally asks, because he doesn't yet know enough about Andrew to work out an important question about him, and something tells him Andrew isn't going to give anything up without a fight, anyway. Neil is too tired to fight today. He thinks he might be too tired to fight ever again.

“Don't you know?” Andrew drawls and stubs out his cigarette. “Boss only hires broken people. Welcome to the club.”

He gets up before Neil can say anything about that, and slams the door so hard on his way back inside that it reverberates around the courtyard. The cat tears off through a hole in the fence, and Neil sighs and gathers up his things before following.

 


	2. The Monsters' Den

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil gets settled at the Foxhole, a wild soccer mom appears, Seth happens, Neil gets a haircut from Allison, and the Foxes manage to persuade Neil to go to Eden's Twilight with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should be studying, so naturally I am doing anything but and finished editing this chapter early. Oh well. Thank you to everyone who left a comment on the first one <3
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: panic attacks with some vague flashbacks
> 
> Just a small note on Andrew's medication - whatever he says in this chapter (he's just being a shit), Andrew doesn't take drugs and unlike in the books he is not forced to take medication against his will. Things will become clearer in later chapters but I just wanted to clarify this here. :)
> 
> If you have any questions, don't hesitate to ask.

Andrew isn't working the next day, but Neil meets the rest of the Foxhole's staff and spends his lunch break talking rugby with Matt and picking at the gauze on the back of his hand to ease some of the itching there. Abby forces a few slices of pie on him before he leaves, and when he glances at the week's rota, he is disconcerted to find that he has tomorrow off. Neil detours past Wymack's office to tell him he doesn't need an entire day off, but Wymack only glares and goes back to his paperwork, a glass of Scotch in his hand and an unlit cigarette stuck behind his ear. Matt asks him if he wants to grab dinner with him and the girls, but Neil declines, and later regrets it when he opens the small fridge in his apartment's kitchenette and finds nothing but Abby's too-sweet pecan pie in it.

He makes do with the pie, goes for another run, and finally heaves himself to the supermarket around noon the next day when he's also running low on granola bars and apples. By the time he's put his groceries away, dealt with his laundry and spent an hour lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling, most of his day off has passed him by.

His long morning run has left him achy and trembly with overexertion and he goes for a walk instead. The park is too crowded, as it's a Saturday afternoon, so he explores the smaller side streets and back alleys in his neighbourhood, following a vague, meandering path that takes him closer to the Foxhole in lopsided spirals before he notices what he's doing and steps into the nearest store. He loses himself in its spacious aisles filled to bursting with household items, clothes, sweets and home decoration, and comes back to himself when an employee asks if he needs any help with the mug he's been holding and staring at for ten minutes. There's a pixellated photo of a cat printed on it, and the handle is probably supposed to mimick the shape of a cat's bushy tail.

Neil buys the extraordinarily ugly mug and a second set of sheets, swallowing down the stale bile of an old panic at spending money on something that isn't strictly necessary, and takes the long way home.

It's a relief to go back to work on Sunday. The Foxhole opens at eight like usual, but the morning crowd is noticeably thinner and mostly consists of hungover clubgoers on their way home and a few young mothers who look like they had sleepless nights. Neil mans the counter with Allison, who despite her flawless appearance is more hungover than most of their customers and only talks to snap at him when the register is too loud, but when he takes his lunch break, he finds Andrew camped out on the back steps once more, cigarette in hand and two slices of chocolate fudge cake on plates beside him.

“Neil,” he says, smiling coldly in the weak glint of sunlight dappling his face, “you made it. Fantastic.” He shoves one of the plates at Neil and shrugs when Neil shakes his head. “More for me. Abby insisted, but I told her you wouldn't take it.”

“Tell her thanks anyway,” Neil says and takes out his sandwiches and a container of fat purple grapes. He picks a few out and eats them, then hesitates, and finally lifts his fingers to his face and plucks at the edge of the bandage that covers the wounds left behind by Lola's knives. Once that one is off, it's easier to remove the other one as well, and when he turns to face Andrew, Andrew is already watching.

Neil lets him look his fill and doesn't say anything. Slowly, Andrew puts his plate down and reaches out a hand to take Neil's chin between thumb and index finger, turning his face this way and that, his eyes following the lines and whorls of the wounds like he's cataloguing them.

“Your turn,” is all Andrew says when he's done. Neil suddenly feels light-headed with relief and crumples the used bandages up in his hands. He has fresh ones in his bag that he can put on in the bathroom before he goes back to work later, and the cool air is pleasant on his bare face for now. He lets out a long, shaky breath and picks up a sandwich.

“What's your favourite cake?”

“That's your question,” Andrew says, flat and almost disbelieving. “Really?”

Neil shrugs. “That's not an answer.”

“The white chocolate and raspberry,” Andrew snorts, because of course he would pick the most obnoxiously sweet of Abby's cakes, and Neil puts his sandwich down again to eat the rest of his grapes. “What a waste. You could have asked about my drug problem,” Andrew adds after a moment, considering him.

“Drug problem?”

“Come, now. Surely the others have been kind enough to mention it. I think the betting pool is currently leaning towards antipsychotics, though some of them have rather more original ideas. Not that any of them are close, of course, but it's almost amusing.”

“Is it?” Neil asks slowly, sucking the last grape into his mouth as he stares at the base of the chestnut tree, where the stray cat is trying to creep up on a distracted crow.

“You ask stupid questions. What will you be betting on, then? Any fresh, entertaining ideas?” Andrew asks idly, stacking his second empty cake plate on the first with the fork still balanced between his lips. He swaps it for a cigarette a moment later, tapping his foot against the bottom step in an irregular rhythm. Over by the chestnut tree, the crow is leading the cat in a merry chase, then flies off with a smug squawk, leaving the cat staring after it with its tail twitching an irritated staccato.

“I don't bet,” Neil says simply.

“Boring,” Andrew tuts. He doesn't tell Neil what sort of medication he is on, and Neil doesn't ask. When Neil has finished his sandwich, Andrew stubs out his cigarette and takes his plates back inside without another word, and Neil puts new bandages over his cheeks and returns to the counter. He notices that the white chocolate raspberry cake that Abby brings out to replace the sad remains of the carrot cake has a generous slice missing already and has to swallow a small noise that might be the beginning of a laugh.

*

It becomes a routine.

Neil brings coffee to their third lunch break on the back steps together – black with a little milk for himself, and a dirty honey chai latte with toffee syrup for Andrew, who rolls his eyes before all but licking the glass clean. In exchange, Andrew shares his cigarettes and never fails to offer him the second slice of cake.

“You're going to die of sugar poisoning,” Neil tells him. “Did you know that you can lose limbs to diabetes?”

Andrew flicks dismissive fingers at the knobbly assembly of fruit and granola bars cradled in Neil's lap and mutters “pot, kettle” because Neil's eating habits aren't much better these days.

“Trade you the bandages on your hands for my favourite ice-cream flavour,” Andrew offers, still mocking Neil's last question in their game, and Neil looks down at his hands and struggles to put together the echo of Lola's knife with the memory of the last time he even had ice-cream. It sounds like an unequal trade, and Andrew clearly thinks so too when Neil shrugs and nods, because he stares at Neil like he's just asked for world peace, but the longer Neil thinks about it, the lighter it feels in his chest, the heavy weight of a blade traded for a scoop of sugar and cream.

Slowly, he begins to unravel the bandages.

“You're an idiot,” Andrew comments, his eyes tracking the movements of Neil's hands, cigarette momentarily forgotten between his fingers. A wisp of ash shakes loose and blows away on the wind. When the first bandage is off, Andrew reaches out and catches Neil's wrist between thumb and pinky, turning it over so he can survey the mess on the back of his hand. “Oh, Neil,” he sighs, exhaling two thin streams of smoke through his nose, “you're even more fucked up than I gave you credit for.”

There is neither shock nor pity nor revulsion in his voice, just a flat statement of something true. Neil lets out a breath and starts on his second bandage, but Andrew tuts and tacks the end back on.

“Leave it,” he says, “you can barter that for my coffee preferences some other time. It's cookie dough, by the way.”

“Gross,” Neil says lightly, earning himself a half-hearted glare and a shrug in response.

“Coming from the guy who probably likes sorbet.”

“How did you guess?” Neil asks, sheepishly glancing down at his third clementine, half peeled between his clumsy hands, a mess of juice and stringy white bits. Its bright citrusy smell is almost strong enough to overpower the last dregs of cigarette smoke lingering on the stairs. Andrew makes a disgusted noise and leaves him sitting by himself for the rest of his break.

The next time, they sit and eat in silence. The time after that, Andrew asks about the burns on Neil's cheek, and when Neil answers with a clipped “dashboard lighter” and puts the rest of his lunch down, his appetite gone, Andrew wordlessly reaches over and tucks his half-smoked cigarette between Neil's fingers before lighting another one for himself.

“Why is Aaron so often around when you're working, even if he's not?” Neil asks him in return after a long silence. Andrew blows smoke into the wind and taps his foot on the bottom step.

“We have a deal,” is all he says, and, with a twitch of something that is almost annoyance: “Eat your fucking lunch, sob story.”

Neil picks up his carton of cold noodles and eats.

*

“See the soccer mom in the window seat?” Allison mutters as she steams milk for a distracted businessman. “She just tipped me _one_ _cent_.”

“Wow,” Neil mutters back. “New record? We should put her picture on the board of shame.”

“Mm. I was tempted to use full fat in her soy decaf latte and then pour it steadily down her organic cleavage.”

Neil, who has by this point been sternly lectured by Abby on why they are under no circumstances allowed to change people's orders even and especially when they seem unnecessarily fussy and complicated, bends lower over the counter he's wiping down to hide his smirk. He understands the necessity of this rule, but that doesn't mean he hasn't been tempted on occasion by customers such as the window lady in question. Shifts with Allison are always highly cathartic, and he saves all of his pent-up customer-related frustration of the week for them, though they have to be careful when Kevin is around, who likes to ruin their fun by parroting non-existent barista etiquette rules at them.

“Shit,” Allison hisses suddenly, and before Neil can figure out what's wrong, she's ducked down behind the counter, pushed out the box of takeaway cups, and folded herself neatly into the space, high heels and all. Allison is neither small nor skinny nor particularly inclined to sit still and fade into the background, and Neil is highly impressed by the acrobatics required to fit in the cramped space. Looking up, he sees a tall, glowering man approaching the counter like a freight train, and barely resists the urge to dive down beside Allison, limited space be damned.

“Where is she,” demands the man, two big hands splayed out on the counter. Neil's brain unhelpfully calculates how well they would fit around his neck.

“Quick tip,” he finds himself saying before he can stop himself, “if you're asking like this, you're rather giving the impression of a rampant bull on a murder spree, so even if I knew who the hell you're talking about, I definitely wouldn't tell you. Just a thought.”

There's a noise from under the counter like Allison is stifling her laughter in the plastic lid of a takeaway cup, and the man's jaw twitches dangerously. After a moment of sizing Neil up, he obviously decides Neil isn't worth the effort, and resorts to making a spectacle of himself by bellowing Allison's name so loudly that the tiny chihuahua in the window lady's purse starts yapping like its pint-sized life depends on it.

“Now, really!” its owner gasps, nose flaring in outrage, her overly styled blond hair deflating a little under the sheer force of her offended dignity. She then turns to Neil like this whole incident is somehow his fault and demands to speak to the manager about keeping thugs out in the street where they belong and getting a refund she definitely doesn't need, when the man hollers for Allison again, even louder this time, peppered with some choice swearwords that would have made the window lady's ears burn if she wasn't so distracted by her little speech, and Neil has to take a few fortifying breaths before he does something he regrets.

“Is there a problem?”

Andrew's voice is so clear-cut that it shuts both the unpleasant man and the window lady up for a blissful moment. He's leaning in the door frame, black cloth tied around his head and powdered sugar down the front of his shirt, and Neil notices the delicate embroidery on his customary armbands. By all accounts, he shouldn't look threatening at all, but somehow still does.

“Allison's on her lunch break,” Neil quickly says into the silence, turning back to the angry bull in front of him. “I suggest you go somewhere to cool off, and maybe sign up for an anger management class or two.” Then he plasters on his most hideous customer service smile and turns to the other problem child currently crowding up against his counter. “Ma'am, I apologise for the inconvenience. Why don't you let me make you a latte to go, on the house?”

Allison gives him a little kick under the counter, but in the end, the unpleasant man stomps off in a huff and the window lady leaves with her latte to go, muttering under her breath, and Neil counts both of these things as a win, even if he has to pretend to check something under the counter so he can mime screaming into the void where none of the other customers will see. Allison comes back up with him, patting down her hair, and pokes a perfectly manicured finger into his chest.

“You're a handsome little firecracker, Josten, you know that? You were almost as quick as Renee at getting rid of him.”

“That's a regular occurrence, then?” Neil asks, catching sight of Andrew still loitering in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest.

“Between once a week and once a month,” Andrew says idly. “Every time they break up.”

Allison rolls her eyes. “We didn't break up,” she says, and the conversation gets interrupted by a new round of coffee orders. By the time Neil has finished plating the last slice of blueberry pie, Andrew has disappeared back into the kitchen.

“So that was your boyfriend?” Neil leans against the counter, fiddling with his plastic gloves. They make his hands feel oversized and sweaty, but Kevin threw such an ugly fit last time Neil took them off and forgot to put them back on that he isn't going to risk it even on days where Kevin isn't working, because he's usually around somewhere and prone to pop up out of the blue to harp on whatever thing Neil's done wrong that day, never mind that his injuries aren't actually open wounds any more and he's still covering most of them up with bandages anyway.

“Seth?” Allison says, undoing her immaculate fishtail braid and combing through her hair with her fingers, just to re-do it a moment later. It doesn't look any different than before, as far as Neil can tell. “Sort of,” she finally says around a sigh. “It's complicated.”

“Didn't sound very complicated,” Neil mutters. “He was being a grade A douche.”

“Mm, he does that,” Allison grins, then flaps her hand at the clock. “Hey, junior, isn't it your lunch break?”

The weight of the word hits him somewhere in the middle of his spine, cutting off his breath. He feels hot and cold at the same time, his father's voice dripping ice and venom in his mind, drowning out the hum of the café around him. He sees blood on the tiles of a bathroom on the other side of the country. Handcuffs digging into his wrists. The loneliness of a highway at night. A concrete basement and the weight of a cleaver on the bridge of his nose.

“...eil. Neil. Neil!”

Someone touches his shoulder and he flinches, wrenching himself out of their grip. His heart racing a million miles an hour, Neil sucks in a breath, then another, without breathing out until it hurts, and then everything reassembles itself around him and the black spots in his vision recede. Cold sweat soaks through the back of his shirt.

“Fuck it, I'm getting Wymack,” Allison mutters, looking shaken.

“No! I'm fine,” Neil says. Even the words are trembly and weird, and by the look on Allison's face, she can hear it too. “I, sorry, I just need to – eat something. I'll go do that. Sorry.”

He high-tails it out of there before Allison can say anything, sinking onto the back steps even though it's freezing outside and he doesn't have his jacket. Shaking, he pulls his knees to his chest and rests his forehead on them, drawing in longer and longer breaths like his mother taught him when he was a kid, _in, count to one, out, count to one, in, count to two, out, count to two, in_...

“You're a mess, Josten.”

Something soft and warm drops around his shoulders and Neil jumps, catching it instinctively in his hands when it slides down. He opens his eyes and finds his jacket, and then Andrew sits down next to him with a bottle of water and a bagel, sliced neatly into quarters. He pushes both at Neil.

“Panic attacks are exhausting,” he says in his flat, steady voice. Then he looks at Neil, a spark of something in his eyes, and asks, “what triggered it?” in the same tone of voice, like he's asking about the weather tomorrow, and Neil can feel something unclench in him. He keeps counting until he reaches eight and thinks his lungs can breathe on their own again now.

“Allison called me -” he starts, but can't actually bring himself to say it. “Something my – father used to call me.” The words sound bitten down to the flesh, and Neil recoils from them, breathes. He slides his arms into his jacket and wraps them around himself, still shaking, his shirt clinging to his back. Andrew taps his fingernail against the plate with the bagel like a reminder, and Neil compromises by picking up the water bottle first, emptying half of it in slow, long drags.

“Ask me something,” Andrew demands after a moment, trying to balance them out again. Neil stares off into space, drinks some more water. At last, he grabs a piece of the bagel and nibbles on it, teasing out a slice of avocado and letting it melt on his tongue.

“What's on your armbands?”

Andrew looks taken aback, then holds out his arms for him to see. The bands are embroidered with fine, silvery thread, small starbursts making up constellations, though Neil can't say which ones. He looks questioningly at Andrew, and Andrew shrugs and steals a piece of bagel from the plate.

“Orion, Taurus, Auriga, Gemini, Canis Minor, Canis Major,” Andrew recites, tracing patterns on the black fabric with the tip of his finger. “Ask Renee to make you a pair, I have more than I can fucking count.”

Despite the irritation in his voice, he rubs his fingers over the tiny starbursts again and again, like it grounds him, and Neil looks down at his own arms with their scars hidden underneath his sleeves and thinks about that. They finish off the bagel together, and then Neil's lunch break is over and he has to go back inside.

“Thanks,” he tells Andrew, nodding at the empty plate and bottle and feeling a tiny rush of warmth when Andrew snorts and looks away.

*

Like the wounds on Neil's face and arms, the urge to run slowly starts to scab over and fades from acute agony to dull throb. The days pass. Neil goes to work, does his chores, feeds himself. He sits with Andrew on the back steps, trading cigarettes and food and the occasional truth. He talks rugby with Dan, lets Nicky's chatter and bursts of singing wash over him, rolls his eyes at Kevin's rants. He ignores and is ignored by Aaron. He declines Matt's persistent invitations to social activities, swaps snarky muttered comments about customers with Allison, smiles politely at Renee whenever he passes her.

Every morning, Neil runs. Every morning, Neil stays.

The bandages come off for good, and Neil is up half the night fretting about what the others are going to say when they see him the next day, but all that happens is that Dan exclaims about the dark circles under his eyes and makes him coffee, and Renee flashing him an approving smile as she brings out a freshly baked tray of brownies. Andrew isn't there today, so the tray is still untouched, and Neil doesn't spend his lunch break outside because it starts snowing around mid-morning, soft, silent, thick flakes swirling lazy patterns through the frozen November air.

Most customers still stare, of course, but Neil is learning not to care.

“Please?” Nicky says the week after, sitting on the counter with a mug of hot chocolate when he and Neil have finished closing up and Neil is sorting out the mess he made of the tea drawer earlier, trying to find a last bag of Andrew's favourite vanilla fudge green. “Please please please please?”

“I can't,” Neil says, running out of excuses. “I have, I can't tonight.”

Nicky perks up. “Another time? What about Friday? Saturday? Hell, Sunday, if necessary – whenever, really. Just come out with us for once, Neil. I promise we don't bite. It'll be fun.”

Neil scrunches up his face. He can't imagine that there's a very big overlap between his definition of fun and Nicky's, judging by the stories he's always telling, but there is a chasm waiting right behind the flimsy screen of these thoughts that Neil has been trying to avoid falling into lately.

The truth is that he hasn't exactly been going out of his way to have _fun_ for a long time now.

“I – alright,” he finally crumbles, wiping a resigned hand over his face. “Friday, then. But I don't drink.”

“Noted,” Nicky says with a wink, then does a quick fist pump and slides off the counter. He counts off his fingers. “Dinner first, then we meet with the girls and Matt for the pre-party, then ice-cream, then Eden's.”

“Pre-party?” Neil asks dubiously.

“It means drinking before the actual drinking,” Nicky grins, “but you'll be excused. Allison might attack you with hair gel though, just a heads-up.”

He laughs when he sees the look on Neil's face. Wymack comes out of his office, jiggling his keys in his hand, and tells them to get lost, he's not paying them to loiter after their shifts, but he calls Neil back once more to ask, for the third time that week, if he's managed to get a new phone yet.

Neil _has_ a phone, forced on him by Agent Browning when the FBI set him up in his apartment in case they needed to contact him. Neil turns it on once every couple of days to check, then buries it in an unused kitchen drawer again, clamping down on the panic, but after Neil lied and said he'd lost his phone, Wymack has been persistently nagging him to get a new one, so he can call him if they need someone else's shift covered on short notice.

“I'm working on it,” Neil tells Wymack, like he has every other time Wymack's asked this week, and Wymack looks at him like he knows exactly that Neil's just bullshitting him at this point, but doesn't press the issue.

When Neil wakes up on Friday, it's snowing again. He feels clammy and stiff after his morning run, despite a hot shower, and slips into his warmest hoodie for work, not even thinking about his promise to Nicky until he and Kevin are locking up, Andrew perched on a table tapping at his phone and Aaron leaning against the door, scuffing his foot against the floor in a rhythm that unconsciously matches Andrew's restless fingers.

“Oh, Neil,” Andrew says when Neil tries to quietly slip away. His fingers catch in the hood of Neil's shirt, stopping him in his tracks. “How forgetful of you. Did you get the days of the weeks mixed up again? You're coming with us.”

Neil glares at him, and Andrew shakes his head and tuts, then puts his phone away in his pocket and slips off the table. “No running,” he murmurs, tugging on Neil's hood. “You promised.”

He walks out in front of Neil, and the others follow, Kevin bringing up the rear. Nicky is waiting for them outside with a sleek black car and Andrew gets into the driver's seat, taking the keys from Nicky and adjusting the seat to his height, and Neil lets himself be tucked into the back between Nicky and Aaron, ignoring Nicky's wink when his thigh ends up pressed to Neil's. They don't go far, and Neil frowns at himself when he realises that he's been memorising the route out of habit, feeling silly when they park in front of a sushi restaurant. He's not being kidnapped, even if it feels a little bit that way as the other boys make a point of flanking him on the walk inside.

“Brighten up,” Andrew tells him with that blade of a smile on his face, “they have fruit rolls, you know.”

Neil, not a picky eater by habit, rolls his eyes, but Andrew's smile comes back out to play when Neil orders the mango rolls anyway. He retaliates by smirking when Andrew gets baked bananas with honey for dessert, and steals a piece of banana off his plate even though he knows it's far too sweet for his taste. Andrew looks unimpressed, and Neil shrugs and leans back in his seat, pausing at the expressions on Nicky, Aaron and Kevin's faces.

“How.” Nicky, always the first to find his voice, looks from Neil to Andrew and back again. “How did you not just lose a hand?”

Neil frowns. “That knife is far too blunt for cutting through bone,” he says without thinking, and Nicky chokes a little bit. As if amused, Andrew picks up the knife on his plate and twirls it in his hand, then hums and lets it clatter back onto the tablecloth.

“Can we pay now,” Aaron grouches, arms crossed and hands tucked either side of his ribcage. There is talk of splitting the bill, and Neil fumbles for his wallet, but Andrew slaps his hand away when he tries to contribute, and then they march him back to the car in the same formation as earlier, and Neil is already tired from so much socialising, even though the night has only just begun.

The pre-party, as Nicky had called it, turns out to be at Matt's apartment, and is already in full swing by the time they arrive. Dan ushers them in, warns them that Seth and Allison made up again, and serenely distributes violently orange jello shots. There's one for Neil, too, non-alcoholic and abhorrently sweet, and he grimaces when he hands back the glass, but Dan only laughs and slaps him on the back.

“Good man, Josten. Now, let's see about your outfit.”

“My outfit?” Neil asks, already dreading the response. Dan holds out her hand, and Andrew drops a bag into it on his way past to the fire escape for a smoke. Dan passes it on to Neil and directs him to the bathroom with a sly smile.

Neil takes a deep breath when the lock clicks into place and he's finally alone. He splashes cold water on his face and runs his wet hands through his hair, which is long enough by now that he has to tie it back at work, grimacing at the sight of his reflection in the mirror. He really does need a haircut. He's been avoiding it for weeks.

The clothes in the bag are all black and impossibly soft to the touch. They smell like laundry detergent, but they look new, and Neil isn't sure what would be worse – if they belong to one of the others and he's meant to borrow them for the night, or if Andrew's bought them specifically for him and washed them before giving them to him. The trousers and shirt are both a lot tighter than he's used to, but they are both undeniably his size, and the only people that match him in height are the twins, who are both a lot broader and heavier than him, but Neil can't figure out why Andrew would buy him clothes just for the one night.

There's a pair of armbands at the bottom of the bag, black like Andrew's and embroidered in shiny blue thread. Neil shakes them out and traces the small bumps that turn out to be tiny flowers – forget-me-nots, perhaps, and Neil has to swallow down the odd, burning sensation in his throat at that, because all his life has been spent trying to make himself as forgettable as possible. The urge to run rears its desperate head again like a spooked horse. Neil takes a steadying breath and slides the armbands on over his hands, noticing the thumb holes; they cover his wrists and the backs of his hands as well, leaving only the scars on his fingers exposed. There's a mirror above the sink, and Neil checks and double-checks that none of his other scars are visible, then shoves his own clothes into the bag and goes to join the others in Matt's living room.

A small hush descends on the group when he enters, dispelled when Nicky whistles and Matt raps his knuckles on the coffee table in approval. Neil sits down awkwardly, the trousers stretching tight and riding uncomfortably low on his hips. One of his socks has a hole in it, the other is so threadbare at the heel that there's almost no fabric left. Looking around, he notes that Nicky has changed into something sleek and glittery and styled his hair, and the girls all look fancier than usual, Allison poured into a gold sequin dress, Dan in a short skirt and knee-high boots, and Renee wearing an embroidered silk waistcoat. Matt, Aaron and Kevin are dressed more casually, but even Neil can see the difference between their outfits and the ragged hoodie and torn jeans that are now tucked away in Neil's bag.

When Andrew comes back, his eyes linger on Neil for longer than they do on the others as he checks head-counts and takes another jello shot from the table. Neil hopes he passes the test – as much as he doesn't want to go out to a club tonight, or ever, getting sent home at this point because he's incapable of dressing himself would just be humiliating.

He lets the conversation eddy and pool around him, sipping at a glass of lemonade that Renee brought him at some point, feeling out of place in someone else's apartment, someone else's friend group. Beside him, Andrew stares into space. His armbands are adorned with flowers, too, though not forget-me-nots and not ones Neil recognises. They are deep pink, and Andrew is absent-mindedly tracing the wide bowls of their blossoms with his thumb. On Neil's other side, Allison is doing Renee's make-up, a bag open beside her overspilling with equipment. Neil knows what most of it is for from what his mother used to have on her, though for her, these things had been tools of disguise to make them fade into the background rather than stick out. He watches the process for a while, soothed and intrigued by the precise motions of Allison's hands on Renee's face and in her hair.

“Want to give it a go?” Allison grins once she's finished with Renee. “Bit of glitter looks good on anyone, you know.”

She nods towards Nicky, who, Neil notices, is wearing eyeliner and purple glitter on his face, some of which has already trickled onto his shirt.

“Um,” he says, eloquently. He looks down at his forget-me-nots, thinks of his mother picking over the most neutral shades of lipstick at the dollar store.

“I could cut your hair, too,” Allison offers. “I'll do it for free if you'll let me try out some things. If you don't like them, you can always wash them off again.”

She holds up her bag with a mischievous smile, and Neil self-consciously touches a hand to his unruly hair and contemplates the clump of nausea in his belly when he thinks of getting his hair cut somewhere, letting a stranger near his head with a sharp pair of scissors.

“Alright,” he says, and Allison looks triumphant.

“Follow me,” she says, getting up, “I want it to be a surprise.”

They go into the kitchen, where Allison pulls out a chair for him and drapes a towel around his shoulders. She wets a comb and uses it to part his hair this way and that, clips back the longer bits and tilts his head, the scissors singing in her fingers. Neil is tense all the way through. Strands of auburn hair tumble down his front and he shakes them off, still recoiling at the reminder that he has his father's hair.

“Close your eyes,” Allison instructs, moving around to his front. Hair tickles his nose. When she's done, Neil opens his eyes to blink away the itchiness, and sees Andrew lounging against the door frame, watching them. He holds his gaze while Allison finishes up and tells him not to move as she massages something into his hair that smells like pineapple, brushes off his shoulders and gets a broom to clean up the fallen bits of hair around him.

“Much better,” Allison says, surveying her work. “Now, on to the fun part.”

She pulls her make-up bag towards her and perches on a chair in front of him, one leg crossed over the other. Neil kneads his hands in his lap and lets his eyes fall closed again when Allison gets to work on his face, though he can't suppress the occasional twitch or shiver, no matter how aware he is that Allison is not Lola, that he can get up and walk away any time. Allison dabs gently around the wounds on his cheeks but doesn't comment on them, spends half an eternity on his eyes, then riffles through her bag until she finds a small bottle of light blue nail polish and holds out her hands expectantly.

“You want to paint my nails?” Neil asks, baffled.

“Humour me?” Allison says, half a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. She takes out a bottle of nail polish remover and sets it on the table between them, like an insurance. Neil lets her have his hand, mesmerised by her quick, precise strokes, the gleam of the wet polish in the light. The colour matches the embroidery on his armbands.

Allison gives him two coats and orders him to sit still with his hands splayed on the table until the polish is dry. Neil risks another glance at Andrew, who is still lingering in the doorway, but there is neither approval nor scorn on his face. Neil thinks of his mom, of the few times she dressed Neil up as a girl when he was still young enough to get away with it, for the purpose of a disguise. He resists the temptation to trace the forget-me-nots on his armbands again and tries to shake off the persistent after-image of a burning car on a beach that is still smouldering on the insides of his eyelids every time he closes them.

“There, all done,” Allison announces, tugging him to his feet. “Let's find you a mirror.”

“We should get going,” Andrew, snapping out of his eerie stillness, reminds them with a glance at the clock. Allison waves this away and leads Neil out of the kitchen and into the bathroom, nudging him in front of the mirror with a flourish so he can admire her handiwork.

Neil swallows. The haircut is definitely better than the mess it was before. Allison has cut it short at the sides and in the back, but left it long on top, and the product she used makes the curls tumble softly over his forehead. Whatever she's done to his face, it has made the scars look less angry, and he can't breathe for a moment at how much more intense the blue of his eyes looks, the colour echoed in a drizzle of glitter and the polish on his nails that tones down the resemblance to Nathan again. Neil's not sure he's entirely comfortable with it, but Allison is beaming at him, and he fixes his gaze on her instead and gives her a weak smile.

“You're welcome,” Allison says pointedly, prodding him between the ribs. “Come on, Kevin's probably getting antsy about his alcohol intake.”

Nicky whoops when he catches sight of Neil's new look, but Neil leans out of his reach when he tries to ruffle his hair, and as soon as Neil has slipped into his shoes and jacket, Andrew is pulling him out the door and away from the crush of people getting ready in the hallway. They go downstairs to wait, and Andrew lights two cigarettes for them, leaning against the side of his car as he smokes.

“Thank you for the clothes,” Neil says awkwardly, but Andrew only shoots him an irritated look and doesn't respond.

They get ice-cream on the way to the club as predicted by Nicky, and something passes again between Andrew and Neil when Neil gets lemon sorbet and Andrew gets a hazelnut mocha concoction with a towering pile of whipped cream, fudge sauce and caramelised nuts on top, even if neither of them mention it. Kevin is getting impatient, though, so they don't linger, and Neil is almost relieved when they arrive at the club, because it means there's only the one stop left now and then he can go home and never deal with this again.

Eden's Twilight is packed. Somehow, they jump to the front of the queue outside and are ushered in by a bouncer who bumps fists with Aaron and Nicky, and Neil sticks close to Andrew as they look for a table on the gallery, suddenly terrified of getting lost in the crowd. There's barely any light inside, music throbs in the enclosed space, the bass shaking through Neil's body like a second heartbeat. Andrew and Nicky clear empty glasses off a newly abandoned table in the back and disappear with Renee in tow to buy drinks, and Neil lets himself sink onto a squashed leather sofa between Allison and Matt, head spinning and heart racing in his chest.

“Not so bad, is it?” Matt leans close to shout over the music. “Told you we're all nice. Well, the girls and I are nice, and the monsters are behaving themselves tonight...”

He gestures at Kevin and Aaron, who are having a heated discussion about football with Dan. By the looks of it, Dan is winning, but neither Kevin nor Aaron are willing to accept that.

“And here's Seth,” Matt sighs, and sure enough, the angry man from the other week is shoving his way through the crowd to get to their table. Neil half expects another scene, but he only leans down to kiss Allison hello and engages in a complicated looking handshake with Matt, barely sparing Neil a glance, before he pulls Allison to her feet and drags her off with him to dance.

“Will she be okay?” Neil asks, frowning, and Matt watches the pair disappear and shrugs.

“Yeah,” he says, “Seth's kind of an asshole, but he'd never lay a finger on her. Besides, they're having an on phase. Wouldn't be surprised if they end up fucking in the bathroom.” He grins, and Neil sinks back into the couch feeling awkward. It's bad enough when Nicky starts rhapsodising about his German boyfriend at the coffee shop – there are things Neil does not need to know about his co-workers, though he's learned to tune out Nicky's monologues at work, where he can keep himself busy.

When Andrew and the others come back bearing trays of drinks, Andrew sits in the space Allison has vacated and hands Neil a soda before distributing cocktails and shot glasses. Neil rolls the cool can between his hands. He feels sleepy despite the noise and the anxiety still roiling in his gut. Kevin starts knocking back drinks like he's in a competition, Aaron, Nicky, Dan and Matt have a few each before disappearing to the dance floor, dragging Kevin with them and leaving Neil alone with Andrew and Renee, who are deep in discussion about the possibility of an asteroid hitting the earth any time in the near future. Neil has nothing to contribute, but listens anyway, sipping his soda and watching the way Andrew's hands move in the air when he talks. For a man whose face rarely gives anything away, his gestures are oddly expressive, even when the rest of his body is completely still.

He catches Renee's eye and she smiles at him, an unnerving twinkle of something in her gaze.

“I think I'll go dance,” she says lightly, “are you two coming with?”

Andrew doesn't answer, which probably means no, and Neil, relieved, shakes his head. Renee shrugs and gets to her feet. Andrew doesn't watch her go, squinting at a cluster of shot glasses on the table instead, though Neil notes that he hasn't touched a single drink all night.

“Did Renee make these?” Neil remembers to ask him, holding up his arms. Andrew flicks a glance at the forget-me-nots and nods. “They're nice,” Neil says, tracing over a knot of flowers in the palm of his hand. “Did you ask her to?”

“No.”

They're quiet again, and then Neil says “can I keep them?” and Andrew shrugs, which probably means yes. Neil finally feels himself settle despite the writhing mass of people around him.

“Can I have a truth?” he asks, watching Andrew stack empty glasses on a tray. Andrew waves his hand dismissively, eyes fixed on the glasses. “Why aren't you drinking? You had some shots at Matt's place.”

“You did notice me driving earlier, did you not?” Andrew asks, bored.

“Mm,” Neil says, “I don't think that's it.”

Andrew sighs. “Renee,” he says, like that explains everything.

“Renee what?”

“It's payment,” Andrew says, voice slightly sour, “for losing a fight against her. My medication doesn't mix well with alcohol, and she chose to ask me to abstain when we go out.” He sneers, but just as Neil draws breath to ask one of the many questions crowding up his tongue, Andrew flicks his fingers at him and says: “No. It's my turn now."

He swivels around on the couch, one arm braced on the backrest and one leg tucked under the other, and looks Neil up and down as if trying to decipher something.

“Nicky thinks you're gay.”

Neil blinks. “What?”

“Are you?”

Neil swallows against the dryness in his mouth and looks out over the dancefloor while he collects his thoughts. It's not that he never had time to contemplate such things before – he has had plenty of time, hours and hours on the road, in airports and rest stops and cheap motels, on planes, ferries, trains, buses, cars. Neil has spent half his life in transit and kissed his fair share of strangers in the middle of nowhere, no questions asked, no names exchanged, driven by curiosity and boredom rather than need on his part, and sometimes a small spirit of rebellion against his mom, though her fists always won out in the end.

So, it isn't that he hasn't thought about it – the problem is that he hasn't reached a conclusion yet.

“I don't know,” he says at last, chewing on his bottom lip and frowning at a nearby couple who are intimately entwined as they sway to the music. It's the only truthful answer he can give, and Andrew accepts it without comment.

“Is Renee your girlfriend?” Neil asks, because it seems like a question of near equivalent weight to Andrew's.

“Oh, Neil,” Andrew sighs, almost disappointed. “No, she is not. Why, are you interested?”

“In Renee?” Neil says, surprised. “No. Was that your question?”

Andrew regards him for a moment, something bitter in the twist of his lips. It's not one of the smiles Neil has seen on him before, but it isn't any happier than any of the other ones, and Neil wonders why. Andrew's eyes don't leave Neil's when he jerks his head in the direction of the bar, and Neil gets up to follow him, feeling disoriented and overwhelmed once again as people bump into him despite Andrew clearing the way ahead with the tray balanced expertly on one hand. He sets it down on the bar and waits until he catches the eye of one of the bartenders, who grins broadly when he spots him.

“Andrew! Who's your new recruit?”

“Roland, Neil,” Andrew says flatly, pushing the tray at him. “Not interested.”

Roland laughs brightly and sweeps the tray off the counter to replace it with an empty one. He starts filling it with shot glasses and offers one to Neil, but Andrew nudges the drink away without a word. Neil lets his eyes skim over the crowd, trying to find a familiar face. He thinks he recognises Kevin, making a spectacle of himself on the dancefloor with jerky, uncoordinated movements, too far gone to care, and Andrew snorts when he follows Neil's gaze and sees it too.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the great Kevin Day,” he mutters, accepting two cans of coke from Roland and passing one over to Neil. “Drink up, Mr Undecided. We'll be stuck here a while.”

“Don't let Andrew monopolise you,” Roland tells Neil with a wink as he finishes up the tray. “He used to do the same with Aaron and Nicky, and look at them now. Plenty of nice people who'd kill for a piece of you here tonight, I can promise you that.”

Neil has a violent moment of hearing his father's voice again, telling him exactly which pieces of him he's going to separate from his body in what order down in a concrete basement in Baltimore. He resists telling Roland that people have, in fact, killed for a piece of him, and none of them were nice in any way, and turns abruptly away with the coke clutched in his shaking hands, only to get himself swept up by dancers the second he steps away from the bar.

Exit. He needs to find an exit. He's grown sloppy – he should know blind where they are, should have mapped out escape routes instead of the cursory scan he did when they arrived, and, most of all, he should not be losing his sense of orientation like this, just because a few people are crowding him in, just because of a throw-away remark by someone he doesn't know. Panic has sneaked up on him like creeper vines and he can't breathe. He stumbles, careens against a hard body, flinches when two hands come up to steady him by the arms.

“Neil!” someone yells, and it takes him a moment for the combination of features in front of him to resolve itself into a face he knows. “What are you doing here, buddy? Renee said you were with Andrew,” Matt shouts above the music, still holding on to his arms. “Did he do something? Are you okay?”

Neil's mouth feels numb and he can only shake his head. He doesn't want them to blame Andrew. Matt still looks serious, though, and the next thing Neil knows is that he and Dan are leading him off the dancefloor and out through a door he can't remember seeing before despite the green glow of the exit sign above it. Breath is bursting out of him in shallow thrusts, and the moment they're outside, he crouches down on the pavement, hands curled over his head, unable to stop trembling all over.

“Hey, man,” Matt says gently, kneeling down beside him. “What's wrong? What do you need?”

Neil doesn't know where Dan has gone, but he focuses on Matt's presence beside him, his body radiating heat in the freezing night air. His throat makes a pathetic little sound. Breathe, he needs to breathe, he needs to get himself back under control and get out, he's too exposed -

“Neil,” Matt says, tethering him. His hand is on Neil's back, rubbing large, soothing circles. “Neil, it's okay. Dan's gone to get the others. We'll take you home, okay?”

Neil's thoughts scatter like anxious pigeons around that word – _home_ – incapable of gaining a foothold. He doesn't know where home is. For a moment, he doesn't even know where _he_ is, a dozen cities blurring together in his mind, a parade of luminescent green exit signs, the sickly flash of knives in the dark.

“Hands off him,” someone barks, and Neil can feel Matt tense beside him.

“Dan was supposed to get Renee and Allison.”

“Hands. Off.”

Andrew's voice is suddenly sharp and clear. Neil doesn't have the energy to lift his head, but he senses it when Andrew drops down beside him, and then there's a cool hand on the back of his neck, pressing down. Matt retreats two steps, exchanging hushed words with someone behind him, but Neil can only focus on Andrew, on the weight of his hand on his neck.

“Stop it,” Andrew tells him, like it's that easy. Neil wants to laugh, and suddenly it is that easy, the first real breath rushing into his lungs in what feels like forever, another following. The pressure in his chest eases gradually with every gulp of air. He's still shaking like a leaf, but he's willing to blame at least part of this on the cold, since his jacket is still in Andrew's car.

“Idiot,” Andrew tells him, his voice quiet and seething, “what the fuck were you thinking, running off like that?”

“Nothing,” Neil wheezes. “I wasn't thinking.”

“Clearly,” Andrew retorts. His grip on the back of Neil's neck loosens, but he doesn't let go. Someone steps around Neil, keeping a careful distance, and when he looks up, Renee is holding a bottle of water out to him, a soft smile on her face, her hair tucked untidily behind her ear. Somewhere along the way, Neil lost his coke.

“Thanks,” Neil mumbles. It takes him three tries to unscrew the cap on the bottle.

“Neil?” Matt says, stepping into his line of vision. Dan's behind him, looking concerned, but the others must still be inside.

“I'm fine,” Neil croaks. Matt and Dan exchange a look, and Renee glances between them and Neil and Andrew on the ground.

“Shall I find the others?” she says, already moving, fingertips brushing along Dan's shoulder on her way past.

“We don't have to leave,” Neil insists weakly, “I'm fine, really.”

“Don't be silly,” Dan says, “we're taking you home.”

“You don't all have to go,” Neil tries, because he does want to go home, and they have two cars and two sober drivers between them.

“He's staying with us,” Andrew says. His hand has slipped from Neil's neck, but he's still there, a cool, solid presence on the ground beside him.

“My place is closer,” Matt objects. “He can sleep in my roommate's bed, he's gone for the weekend.”

“He's staying with us,” Andrew says again. Matt looks unhappy, but doesn't try to argue again.

“You don't have to – I can walk to my place from Matt's,” Neil says, teeth chattering. All three look back to him and Neil squirms under the scrutiny, nearly jumping out of his skin when Dan shrugs out of her cardigan and drapes it over Neil's shoulders.

“Come on, there's Renee,” she says, pointing behind him. Neil lets them lead him to where the cars are parked, though Andrew prods him until he gets into the passenger seat this time, leaving Kevin to teeter into the back seat between an annoyed looking Aaron and a tipsy, worried Nicky instead.

“Take it easy, buddy,” Matt tells him with a smile and a pat on the shoulder before he shuts the door for him and follows the girls over to his truck. The ride back is deathly silent, Nicky's nervous attempts at small talk fizzling out within minutes, and Neil sinks into his seat, feeling drained and guilty and embarrassed, and doesn't realise he's falling asleep until the sound of car doors slamming startles him awake again.

“Well,” Nicky says around a tremulous smile, “this is home. Welcome to the monsters' den.”

Neil groggily follows him to the front door, nearly losing Dan's cardigan in the process. Andrew unlocks the door and waits until everyone's inside before locking it again. Kevin immediately totters into the living room leading off from the hallway, not bothering to turn on the lights, and falls face-first onto a large sofa, snoring before his head even hits the cushions. Aaron throws a blanket at him that just about lands on his legs before lurching off down the hall and into another room, while Nicky putters about in a small kitchen and Andrew makes for the stairs.

“You guys live together?” Neil asks Nicky, hesitating in the doorway to the kitchen. Nicky is filling three tall glasses with water and fiddling with a bottle of Aspirin. He hands over one of the glasses, then fills another for himself and takes a sip.

“Minus Kevin,” Nicky says, “well, technically. He sleeps on our couch a lot. Shit, that reminds me, we don't actually have a guest room. I'd offer to share my bed, but...” His eyes flick upwards to where Andrew's heavy steps are audible even through the ceiling, then shrugs apologetically.

“I can sleep on the floor,” Neil says quickly. “I don't mind.”

“Oh, no,” Nicky laughs nervously, “you're sleeping in Andrew's bed, didn't he say?”

Neil frowns. He isn't sure how to feel about Andrew making all these decisions for him without even consulting him, especially because he doesn't know _why_ Andrew is doing it. At the same time, though, it's almost a relief – Neil hasn't been coping well after his mom's death, and he's used to letting her make the decisions and doing what she said. Another lesson learned the hard way, but one he learned well over the years, and has been struggling to unlearn on his own.

“And where is Andrew going to sleep?”

“He's not,” Nicky says with a soft-sad look. He takes a mug out of a cupboard and roots around on a shelf until he finds a box of cocoa. “Here, you can take him some hot chocolate, let me just boil some water.”

While the water boils, Nicky takes the two glasses and some Aspirin to Kevin and Aaron, and Neil listens to the vague sounds of running water upstairs. Aaron and Nicky's voices drift out into the corridor, so Neil finishes Andrew's hot chocolate, stirring until the powder is dissolved, then drops the spoon in the sink and takes the mug upstairs with him, meeting Andrew on the landing as he exits the bathroom.

“Here,” Neil says, “Nicky told me to bring you this.”

Wordlessly, Andrew takes the mug and steps into what must be his bedroom. Neil hovers on the doorstep. The room isn't big, and it doesn't look as empty as Neil has somehow expected; there is a desk with a beat-up laptop perched haphazardly on the edge, dog-eared articles and half-read books strewn about in no discernible order; a pile of clothes on the chair in front of it, an ashtray and a shrivelly but alive-looking cactus on the window sill; a bookshelf, stacked two deep, with a squashy armchair beside it; a hideous rug on the floor with a picture of a grumpy looking cat printed on it that Neil suspects must have been a joke present from Nicky. Only the bed looks immaculate.

Andrew puts the mug down on top of his laptop and gestures to a small stack of folded clothes and towels on the armchair. Neil picks them up and finds a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, as well as a spare toothbrush still in its wrapper.

“Bathroom's next door,” Andrew tells him, before pulling himself up onto the window sill with a packet of cigarettes, shaking one out into his palm and opening the window with his elbow in one smooth motion, feet crossed at the ankles.

“Thanks,” Neil says stupidly, and goes to scrub his face clean and get changed.

When he comes back, Andrew has migrated to the armchair, sitting sideways with his legs dangling over the arm rest, two fingers stuck between the pages of a book as he stares into space. The lights are off, but a small lamp on the desk is bent low over Andrew's book, providing just enough light to read by. Neil closes the door behind him, drapes his towel over the back of Andrew's desk chair, and sits gingerly on the bed.

“I can sleep on the floor,” he offers again, but Andrew just rolls his eyes and cracks his book open again, bending the spine. Neil still hesitates. When Andrew doesn't show any signs of wanting to sleep in his own bed, though, he finally slides under the covers and folds himself up as small as possible, pulling the blanket up to his chin. He has plenty of practice falling asleep wherever and whenever possible, and it's weird with someone else in the room, but something about Andrew's presence is oddly calming as well, and before he knows it, he's drifting off.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am pretty sure there is a Tumblr post floating around somewhere about Renee embroidering Andrew's armbands. I can't find it right now but I loved that idea so much it sneaked in here...
> 
> EDIT: I found it! [Here](http://requiemofkings.tumblr.com/post/155787416925/cabeswaterexy-requiemofkings-au-where) is beautiful art by requiem-of-kings and a truly lovely addition by cabeswaterexy.


	3. Better Than Nothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicky makes waffles, Andrew gives Neil another truth, and everyone finds a way to deal with Aaron's trial.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mention of self harm scars and brief allusion to suicide; there are no actual descriptions of what Drake did but the chapter deals with the lead-up and aftermath of Aaron's trial, so it's not the happiest. If you need more details, let me know.
> 
> Uploading two chapters as a midweek treat because your comments were so incredibly nice and lovely and brightened up my last two days of term, thank you so much to everyone who took the time to leave one!

He wakes later than he's used to, but it's still dark outside when he does. As always, he is instantly awake, tense and on alert, running through a mental list of possible locations and aliases until he can make sense of his surroundings and Neil Josten clicks back into place.

The lamp on the desk is still on, but Andrew is asleep, curled up in the armchair with the book clutched to his chest like a child hugging a stuffed animal. He seems to have barely moved at all, but his hair is a mess, and he's wearing glasses that Neil has never seen on him before. Neil finds it oddly endearing. He slips out of bed as quietly as he can, turns off the light, and pads out onto the landing and into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face and brush the morning breath out of his mouth.

The house is silent when he finds his way back to the kitchen. Dan's cardigan is still draped over the back of a chair and he picks it up and slides into it, shivering in the cold. There's a coffee machine on the counter, but the task of figuring out the right buttons is too daunting right now, so Neil opts for a box of strong black tea that he finds in one of the cupboards and some milk from the fridge, an old habit of his mom's that creeps up on him again from time to time. He's just squeezed the life out of the teabag and settled on the kitchen bench with his knees drawn up to his chest when there's a creak on the stairs, and then Andrew sticks his head in, squinting against the light.

“What,” he croaks.

“I'm fine,” Neil says, on autopilot, and holds up his tea. “You can sleep now, I'll just drink this and then I'll be off.”

Andrew's eyes, impossibly, narrow even further.

“Whatever,” he snaps, and adds: “Nicky is going to make your life hell if you don't stay for breakfast.”

He slams the door on his way out and Neil cringes, half expecting the others to wake up, but the house remains quiet, and there's only the sound of Andrew's bedroom door closing and a key turning in the lock before everything settles again.

Neil sits in the kitchen until dawn starts to bleach out the night, listening to the silence of someone else's home. He's making himself another cup of tea when Nicky joins him, bleary-eyed but smiling, and turns on the coffee machine, which looks a lot less complicated in daylight.

“Did you sleep okay?” Nicky asks, stretching while the coffee brews. Neil hums non-committally and Nicky peers into the fridge, then a few cupboards, then the fridge again. “Waffles?” he muses, taking out some eggs, and sighs when he spots an empty carton of orange juice that someone has put back in the fridge. “What are they, twelve?” he mutters to himself. “Fuck, we need to go grocery shopping. I swear if we take in any more strays I'm going to need a third job.”

“I have food at home,” Neil says quickly and gets up. Nicky looks at him, genuinely puzzled, and laughs.

“Don't you dare, I'm making waffles and you're going to eat at least three of them,” he orders, and Neil sinks back into his seat.

Nicky turns the radio on and starts on breakfast. Neil is used to him chattering and humming away as he works, but he's surprised by how comforting he finds it today, with the radiator gurgling in the background and a few thin snowflakes whipping past the window outside, melting into miserable drizzle as soon as they land. Nicky puts a bowl of fruit and a stack of waffles in front of him that exceeds the promised three, and Neil valiantly eats his way through them while Nicky fries bacon for himself and Aaron and slices more fruit for Kevin, who comes toddling in looking like death soon after, but manages to put away an astonishing amount of food and coffee before he even says his first word. Aaron is next, peaky and squinty-eyed like Andrew, the same awful bed hair but worse because he was wearing hair gel the night before, and wordlessly whisks a plate of mostly bacon away to his room. Nicky, unperturbed, slides the meagre scraps onto his own plate, and makes a last batch of waffles for Andrew, this time with chocolate chips.

“Ugh,” Kevin finally says, wolfing down his last bite and letting his fork and knife clatter to the table. “I hate myself.”

“Is now a good time to tell you that those waffles weren't sugar-free?” Nicky grins. Kevin blinks down at his plate as if he's only just realising what it was he put in his mouth, and looks vaguely betrayed.

After breakfast, Kevin lies down again, and Neil helps Nicky clean up the kitchen and then lets himself be talked into taking a hot bath upstairs. Nicky has a whole drawer of fancy bath bombs and other knick knacks, and Neil makes the mistake of letting him choose, ending up in a frothy concoction of purple blueberry-scented foam, but once he's lowered himself into it, the hot water feels so good he doesn't ever want to leave the tub again. By the time he makes it back downstairs, dressed once again in Andrew's sweatpants and t-shirt and Dan's cardigan because his other clothes are still in Andrew's room, everyone is up at last, there's a football match on in the living room, and Andrew is sitting on the kitchen counter, eating cold waffles with a chocolate chip to dough ratio that is skewed distinctly in favour of chocolate chips.

His bed hair is even worse than before, and he's glaring at Neil, puffy-eyed and hamster-cheeked as he shoves half a waffle into his mouth at once.

“I'm going to head out now,” Neil tells him, relieved when there's finally no protest. He really wants to go for a run and change into clean clothes. “See you at work?”

Again, Andrew doesn't deign to answer, so Neil detours past the living room to thank Nicky for breakfast, and goes to pick up his things from Andrew's room. Something catches his eye as he's just about to turn around and leave, and he walks back to Andrew's desk, where a box of prescription pills has been carelessly tossed on top of his laptop, half a blister pack poking out of the squashed package. Nothing else is out of place, and Neil has the distinct feeling that Andrew's left them there on purpose, knowing he would see.

He goes back downstairs and pokes his head once more into the kitchen.

“Ask me something,” he says.

“When are you going to leave me in peace?” Andrew throws back, staring into space again. His plate is empty, but he's still sitting on the counter, dangling his legs.

“Andrew,” Neil says. Andrew sighs.

“Payment for the panic attack,” he says, twirling his fingers in the air without looking at Neil.

“That's not how this works,” Neil insists.

“Fine. What's your favourite colour?”

It's a waste of a question and a mockery of Neil's early ones, and they both know it. Neil huffs. “Grey.”

“That's not a colour.”

“Of course it's a colour.”

“Oh, Neil. Must you antagonise me so?”

“Who else knows that you take antidepressants?” Neil asks, and Andrew is quiet for a long time, head turned away.

“Renee,” he says flatly.

Neil tilts his head to the side. He considers his next question. “Do they help?”

Finally, Andrew turns his head to look at him, one hazel eye bright and piercing in the strip of weak sunlight coming in through the window, the other shadowed and dull. Another one of his terrible smiles twists its way onto his lips, asymmetric and unsteady.

“I'm still here,” he says, opening his arms and spreading his hands. With a sickening lurch of his stomach, Neil realises that Andrew isn't wearing his armbands, and that the skin from his wrists to his elbows is an uneven landscape of scars. “What do you think?”

The smile disappears abruptly and blankness settles once more over Andrew's features like freshly fallen snow, chilling and silent. Neil takes it as the dismissal it is, and doesn't register that Andrew has given him at least two truths on credit today that he hasn't repaid until he's almost home.

*

The week after, Andrew keeps his distance. Neil tries to come up with something to even out their score, but Andrew doesn't spend his lunch breaks on the back steps with him and disappears after his shifts before Neil can talk to him.

It snows again on the first of December. Nicky puts up a German Advent calendar on the pinboard behind the Foxhole's counter, filled with tiny chocolates, and draws up an elaborate plan of who gets to open which door. Neil gives his chocolate to Matt, caught up in memories of a Christmas Eve spent hiding out in a graveyard in Munich with his mom, the ghost of his first taste of alcohol burning in the back of his throat, fingers tracing the scar on his side where his mom had hastily stitched up a knife wound, her hands capable and steady despite the cold.

“Erik's mom taught me how to make an Advent wreath,” Nicky says one late afternoon as they clean up after the last tired trickle of customers has thinned to a stop. Sludge is piling up in the street outside and Neil feels the weight of the early darkness pressing in even though they've turned on all the lights, including a few strings of Christmas lights that Renee and Nicky have put up. Nicky's tone is cheerful, but there's a crack in his voice like paint peeling off a wall, and Neil can see that his hands are shaking.

“I tried to do it myself the other day, but it's turned out a mess. Andrew and Aaron don't care about decorations, of course, but I put my foot down this year. I'm going to get us the biggest, fattest, most amazing Christmas tree if it kills me...”

One of the mugs he's holding slips through his fingers and breaks. Nicky curses under his breath and sinks to his knees, scrambling to pick up the pieces, but he's only making a bigger mess, so Neil gets the dustpan and prods Nicky out of the way.

“Hey,” he asks, voice pitched low, “are you okay?”

“Oh,” Nicky says around a shaky smile, “yeah, yes, of course, brilliant, I'm just clumsy, haha...”

Neil raises an eyebrow, but doesn't press. He sweeps up the broken pieces and dumps them in the bin, then gets a fresh mug and makes Nicky some chamomile tea with honey, awkwardly averting his eyes when Nicky nearly bursts into tears as he hands it over. The door of the coffee shop rattles as a particularly violent gust of wind throws itself against it, and Neil busies himself with cleaning the coffee machine, since it's almost closing time and it doesn't look like many people are willing to brave the miserable weather for a cup of coffee anymore.

“I'm sorry,” Nicky sniffs after a while, both hands curled around his chamomile tea. “I'm being silly about this whole thing, of course. Aaron's dealing alright and Andrew's – Andrew, I mean he never talks much, does he, and it's going to be ugly of course but I don't think he's thinking about it much, but then again I never know what he thinks, so, I don't know... Do you think I should try to talk to them?”

Neil blinks and replays the words in his head, but he still can't make sense of them, though he has a feeling Nicky isn't talking about Christmas anymore.

“About what?”

“Aaron's trial,” Nicky says. “It's next week. Didn't Andrew tell you?”

“Um, no?” Neil says, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain on the counter. “What trial?”

Nicky looks stricken. “Shit,” he breathes, “you don't know.” He closes his eyes, the mug pressed to his cheek for warmth or maybe comfort, and Neil finishes wiping down the counter and throws the rag in the sink.

“I don't even know where to start,” Nicky says apologetically. He puts his mug in the dishwasher and takes a deep breath. “It's probably not my place to tell. Actually, forget I said anything – shit, Andrew's going to kill me. Please don't tell him?”

“Does Wymack know?” Neil asks. If Aaron goes to prison over whatever this is about, Wymack's going to be down one employee, and Neil can't imagine he'd be pleased about that.

“Yeah,” Nicky says, relieved that Neil isn't pressing the issue. “Yeah, he knows. It's – Aaron's going to be – they won't actually, they _can't_ , it was self-defence, kind of, and Andrew and I are going to testify, and his lawyer said...”

He's wringing his hands, the cracks now showing more clearly in his voice, spreading around certain words. Neil doesn't know what to do – his mom's only tried and true strategy for providing comfort, a bracing cup of tea, has already failed, and he's never had much reason or chance for coming up with some of his own.

“Do you want to call your boyfriend?” Neil tries. “I can lock up...”

Nicky looks up, eyes wet though his customary smile is back in place now, even if it's a little wobbly. “Can't,” he says, “time zones, remember? He's asleep right now. Sorry, I didn't mean to offload on you.”

“It's fine,” Neil says automatically, cringing when Nicky rolls his eyes.

Over the next few days, Neil watches Aaron whenever he comes in after his classes, sitting in the corner table with his books spread out around him and his laptop open, a cup of coffee cooling by his elbow until Andrew finishes his shift in the kitchen and drives them both home. Aaron looks tired, though that is easily attributed to his workload at med school and the night shifts he does at the hospital, and he doesn't talk any more or less than he usually does, but his patience with Nicky and Kevin seems to be even thinner than normal, and he's constantly tapping his leg against something, driving Kevin up the wall. Andrew remains aloof, holed up in the kitchen for the duration of his shifts and only taking cigarette breaks when Neil is busy, and Neil makes a point of wordlessly handing him cups of hot chocolate or coffee whenever he passes the counter on his way back, though Andrew ignores them as often as he takes them with him into the kitchen.

Neil's just unlocked the door to his apartment after a long, gruelling afternoon shift, feeling clammy and hungry and slightly claustrophobic as he steps inside, when the phone Wymack has finally succeeded in bullying him to carry around with him starts vibrating in his pocket. He freezes, a rush of panic boiling up in his chest, then tells himself firmly that it's probably just Wymack or Dan asking him to cover someone's shift. When he fishes the phone out, though, he doesn't recognise the number, and nearly succumbs to the urge to fling it away from him, back down the staircase.

“Neil?” The voice is Nicky's, and Neil sags against the wall in relief, hands shaking as he clutches the phone to his ear.

“Yeah,” he says, to reassure himself more than anything, “it's Neil.”

“Hey,” Nicky croaks, his voice all wobbly again, though it's possible that's just the connection. “I got your number from Dan. Listen... we're almost on our way home, back from, you know. Aaron's free to go, so it's all fine, I mean it's not fine, it was... yeah, anyway. I just thought – okay, I have to make this quick, I need to get back to the car, but can you come over to our place? I feel like I need to be there for them right now, but Andrew's not letting me in and I can't look after both of them, and I thought... well, Andrew tolerates you more than anyone else.”

Neil is silent for a moment, digesting this.

“You want me to come and look after Andrew?”

“You don't have to do anything, really,” Nicky says quickly, “just – make sure he eats something, take his mind off things, that sort of stuff. I'll order food, whatever you want. Kevin's not here tonight so you can even have the couch.”

“I – alright,” Neil says, doubting that Andrew is going to want him around even and especially if he's as affected by the trial as Nicky seems to think he is. “Let me just pack some clothes.”

“You're a lifesaver,” Nicky sighs, relief shaking through his voice. “Thanks, Neil. I'll make it up to you, I promise.”

He hangs up, and Neil is left staring at his scuffed sneakers in the dark. He scrubs a hand over his face and through his hair, takes a deep breath, tucks the phone away and pushes off the wall to pack an overnight bag, then jogs all the way from his apartment to the cousins' house, not fast enough to break a sweat, but at least it keeps him warm. It feels weird to take his duffel bag, knowing that he'll come back.

The house is still dark and the car isn't in the driveway, so Neil sits on the front steps, playing with his lighter and gazing nervously down the dark street. It doesn't take long for Andrew's car to pull up. All three of them are wearing dark suits and coats, looking like a funeral procession more than anything. Neither Andrew nor Aaron pay Neil any attention as they walk past him into the house, but Nicky looks relieved to see him and hugs him tightly for a long moment, ignoring that Neil is tense and unyielding and doesn't hug him back.

“Thank you for coming,” Nicky says around an unsteady breath, and ushers him inside.

Nicky sends off a range of quickfire texts on his phone, then orders food for what sounds like ten people while Neil slips into the kitchen and makes tea. He presses one mug into Nicky's hand, keeps the other for himself, and quickly makes some coffee for Aaron and a spicy chai with whipped cream for Andrew. He leaves Aaron's coffee on the counter for Nicky to deal with and takes the chai upstairs. Andrew is in the shower, but his bedroom door is ajar, so Neil takes this as permission to enter and sets the chai on Andrew's desk, perching on the edge of the armchair with his own tea cradled in his hands.

Andrew comes back from the bathroom with wet hair, wrapped in a fleecy hoodie and wearing a pair of knobbly knitted socks that Neil is fairly sure he's seen Renee working on during her breaks at the Foxhole. He still doesn't spare Neil a glance, ignores the chai on his desk, and stuffs his fancy suit into the laundry basket with vicious force, probably ruining it in the process. Then he picks up a pack of cigarettes and a lighter and pulls himself up on the window sill to smoke.

“What do you need?” Neil asks.

He half expects Andrew to scoff and say _I don't need anything_ , but Andrew doesn't react at all. He takes a few drags of his cigarette, stubs it out, lights another one, stubs that one out too. The draft sneaking in through the crack in the window is icy cold.

Neil stays with him until the doorbell announces the arrival of their food. Andrew doesn't show any signs of getting up, not smoking anymore after three aborted attempts, but still sitting on the window sill, eyes fixed on something far away and buried in the dark outside, so Neil goes downstairs and fills two plates with food. He puts one on the desk within Andrew's reach, but it goes cold like the chai, and Neil takes both back to the kitchen, feeling useless and defeated.

“How's he doing?” Nicky whispers. The sounds of some horror game that he and Aaron are playing in the living room are drifting in, ominous and eerie, and Neil swallows down a lump in his throat and picks over the cartons of leftovers on the table, trying to find something that Andrew might want.

“He's not eating,” he says at last, because apart from cake and ice-cream flavours, Neil doesn't actually know what Andrew likes.

“Try the na'an,” Nicky says, “and some of the vegetable stuff. If all else fails, ply him with ice-cream, it's better than nothing.”

“Okay,” Neil says. He makes up another plate and puts it in the microwave, grabs two cans of ginger ale from the fridge and a few peanut butter chocolate bars, and takes the lot back up to Andrew's room, where he dumps it all on the desk and holds out the plate.

“I'm not going to stop bugging you until you eat at least half of this,” he says firmly, and waits. Just when he's starting to feel incredibly silly, Andrew finally drags his gaze away from the window and looks at the plate like it's only just materialised in front of him. A minuscule sigh escapes him, and then he takes the plate, still not saying a word, and starts shoving na'an bread into his mouth with his fingers, not bothering to take the fork Neil holds out to him. Neil supposes bread is still better than ice-cream or nothing, and lets him be.

It takes another half hour to get some water into Andrew, but he accepts one of the chocolate bars after that and lets Neil close the window, though he doesn't move down from the sill. Neil asks Nicky if he can borrow his laptop and picks a couple of DVDs from the shelf in the living room at random, then curls up in the armchair in Andrew's room, angling the laptop screen so Andrew can watch it from his perch if he wants to. He makes it through the entirety of the first three Harry Potter movies before Andrew finally cracks.

“Turn that crap off,” he snarls as Neil is struggling with the fourth DVD, which is stuck in its case. His voice sounds raw and painful like road rash, but Neil feels something in him loosen in relief that at least Andrew is speaking again. He holds up the DVD case and hums.

“What, this? But you have all of the books, you see, right here...”

Neil points at where the battered spines of seven library books peek out from behind the first row on Andrew's shelf in blocked primary colours, the library stickers old and faded. Neil doubts they'll ever get returned.

“I hate them,” Andrew hisses, snatching the DVD out of Neil's hands and tossing it to the floor like a petulant child. “If you make me sit through another minute of this, I will shove a pair of chopsticks so far down your throat -”

“No chopsticks,” Neil points out lightly, “we ordered Indian. You could try the fork, though. Probably more painful, anyway.”

Andrew grunts, then slides off the window sill, grabs his discarded plate, and stomps off downstairs. Neil picks up the DVD and puts it in the laptop, and Andrew takes one disgusted look at him when he comes back with the rest of the na'an bread and folds himself back up onto the sill, munching on his bread as the movie starts, no fork in sight and no more complaints forthcoming.

Neil supposes it will have to do.

 


	4. Pipe Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Katelyn makes an appearance, things get ugly but then better again, Andrew tries to flirt with Neil, Allison takes Neil shopping, and Wymack and Abby hold a Christmas dinner for the Foxes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: physical assault in the first part; panic attack; discussions of mental health and medication; a non-consensual kiss happens later on; as always, if you need more info, don't hesitate to ask.

The doorbell wakes Neil at eight the next morning, distressingly late for his standards, but all in all not a surprise, considering he stayed up watching Harry Potter movies with Andrew until the wee hours of the morning. The house is quiet, and Neil rolls off the sofa and pads out to the front door, a blanket draped around his shoulders to stave off the chill that has crept inside in the night. When he opens the door, a young woman stands outside, wrapped in a green duffel coat and chewing nervously on one of her bouncy curls, her cheeks flushing candy apple red when she sees Neil.

“Oh!” she exclaims, “hello! You must be Andrew's – you must be Neil? Is Aaron in?”

“I,” Neil says. “I think he's still asleep. Sorry, who are you?”

“Katelyn,” she says, holding out her hand. Neil can't be bothered to disentangle his own hands from the blanket and squints sleepily at it until Katelyn withdraws it again. Neil wracks his brain and can't remember any of the cousins ever mentioning a Katelyn, but he's spared the decision of whether to invite her in or not when the door to Aaron's room opens and Aaron stumbles out, one arm in the sleeve of a cardigan, the other still groping around in the air.

“Kate! What are you doing here?” He sounds slightly frantic, and before Neil has quite finished stepping aside, Katelyn has launched herself at Aaron with a cry and nearly bowls them both over with the impact.

“Aaron, my Aaron,” she murmurs thickly, holding on tight. She is taller than Aaron, and it looks slightly comical, but then Aaron is pushing her back, both hands cupped around her face, smoothing her hair away.

“I told you not to come here.”

“You told me not to come here _yesterday_ ,” Katelyn corrects. “Did you really think I was going to stay away after...?”

Aaron isn't listening. “You can't be here,” he frets, walking her backwards to where Neil is still standing in front of the door. “If Andrew sees you -”

“I'm not afraid of him,” Katelyn insists stubbornly, though Neil can see her lips quiver a bit. “Let me go. I brought you breakfast.”

“No, no, Andrew -”

“Andrew what?”

The voice is unmistakeably Andrew's, coming from the top of the stairs, though it's been a while since Neil has heard it sound quite so chilling. Aaron freezes, then steps away from Katelyn, both hands raised in front of himself. Somewhere down the hall, Nicky sticks his head out of his room, sleep-tousled and bleary-eyed, opening his mouth to ask what's going on, but he blanches when he sees Katelyn, and then Andrew is suddenly there, looking furious and pale, one hand closing around Katelyn's throat before Neil can react.

“No! Andrew!”

Aaron is pawing at Andrew's arm, but it only takes a well-aimed elbow on Andrew's part to send him sprawling on the floor. Nicky shouts and Katelyn makes a choked sound, hands scrabbling uselessly at Andrew's grip on her throat.

“I thought I told you to stay away from him,” Andrew says conversationally. Tears leak out of Katelyn's eyes and roll down her cheeks. “I warned you, didn't I?”

“Andrew,” Neil says, trying to draw his attention away from Katelyn, to no avail.

“Neil, do something!” Nicky pleads from where he's holding Aaron back to stop him from going after Andrew again.

“P-please,” Katelyn chokes.

“I don't like that word,” Andrew sneers.

“Andrew,” Neil says again, louder this time. “Let her go.”

“Why should I? What will you give me?” Andrew challenges him without once looking away from Katelyn, though Neil knows he's talking to him now.

He needs to gather enough spit and breath to speak for a moment, and then he says, “I'll give you my name.”

“I know your name. Neil Josten,” Andrew sneers.

“My birth name.”

Neil sees it the second Andrew's grip loosens. With one smooth motion, he steps up to Andrew and hooks their wrists together, dislodging his hand from Katelyn's throat, careful not to touch anywhere else, and Andrew holds his gaze and lets her go as Katelyn crumples sideways and Aaron catches her.

“Kate,” he sighs, stricken and shaky, sliding his arm under her knees to pick her up.

“Go,” Nicky tells him, “get her out of here.”

Aaron is gone so quickly he doesn't even put on shoes or a jacket, leaving behind a fractured mess of tension and adrenaline, and Nicky slides down to the floor with a strangled noise as the door slams shut behind them.

Andrew keeps staring at Neil for another long moment, then turns on his heel and walks back upstairs. Neil picks his blanket up from where he dropped it on the floor and follows.

“Well?” Andrew says once Neil has closed the door behind them. His bed is rumpled and Neil surveys the mess on the desk from last night; empty plates and mugs, DVDs tossed haphazardly on top of a teetering stack of cases, a pile of sweet wrappers on the window sill.

“My name,” Neil starts, the words instantly glueing up the back of his mouth. He curls his hands into fists at his sides, resisting the temptation to pick at the last of his scabs, and slowly lifts his eyes to meet Andrew's gaze. “Is N-nathaniel.”

Andrew doesn't flinch like Neil half expects him to. He regards Neil calmly, steadily, his eyes like the weight of a hand on the back of Neil's neck.

“Last name?” he demands.

“Wesninski,” Neil whispers. His view blurs for a moment and he can't breathe around the ice in his lungs, but Andrew is there in a heartbeat, pushing his head down and curling a hand around Neil's wrist like an anchor, his thumb a bruising pressure point against Neil's pulse.

“If you google it...” Neil says, his voice gaspy and strange, like something splintered and put back together all wrong.

“Do you _want_ me to google it?”

“No,” Neil whimpers before he can stop himself. “No, I don't.”

Andrew doesn't say anything, letting his silence prove a point. When Neil's breathing evens out again, Andrew lets go of him and takes a step back.

“Your name is Neil Josten,” he says calmly, “you're a Fox. You're not going to run anymore.”

Neil nods weakly and lets himself sink down to his knees. He is dimly aware of Andrew leaving the room, though he can't say how much time passes until he comes back, just that Andrew must have showered and changed in the meantime, and for some reason, there's a cup of tea next to him on the floor, still hot to the touch.

He drinks it slowly, leaning against the armchair behind him, and thinks of his mom, of sitting in the back of a shitty diner stuffing themselves on burgers and fries while his mom ranted about the virtues of Assam versus Darjeeling and how Earl Grey tasted like used dishwater and shouldn't be allowed, of catching her eye across the table and the two of them bursting into laughter at the same time, because they'd got away one more time, because they were alive and eating their first proper meal after weeks of instant noodles and granola bars, and because Mary had ridiculous notions about tea and Neil fiercely agreed with all of them.

“I'm sorry, mom,” he whispers into his mug, because he's broken all of her rules, and now he's gone and trampled all over the most cardinal of them, but somehow, he can't bring himself to regret it just yet.

*

The next day, Renee covers Andrew's shift at work.

Neil tries not to worry, but he's only half listening to Dan as she explains the rules of the Foxhole Secret Santa exchange to him that Matt has somehow succeeded in getting Neil to join. Dan makes him draw a name out of a felt Santa hat and frowns when he barely glances at it, tucking the slip of paper in his pocket without registering what's on it. His hand brushes over the edge of his phone, and he contemplates texting Nicky and asking if Andrew is okay, but the next onslaught of coffee-hungry customers foils that plan, and when he takes his break, sweaty and stained, there is already someone on the back steps.

“Hello, Neil,” Renee smiles. “Do you want to join me?”

Neil half wants to go back inside, but he's here now and Renee is looking at him expectantly. She's sitting on a cushion, and there's a second one on the stair next to her, like she was waiting for him. Neil sits down with a slightly ominous feeling in his stomach and unwraps his sandwiches.

“How are you today, Neil?” Renee asks, her eyes shiny in the grey December gloom.

“Fine,” Neil says, and after a too-long moment remembers to return the question.

“Good, thank you,” Renee says politely. “Looking forward to Christmas. You?”

Neil shrugs. “I never really celebrated it,” he admits. “But I like the decorations.”

“Fair enough,” Renee says, taking a sip of the lemon tea she's brought outside. Steam rushes over her lips, mingling with the white of her breath in the air.

“Is Andrew sick?” Neil asks, cursing himself when Renee turns those knowing eyes on him again, an impish smile playing around the edge of her mouth, sweet and soft like the curl of a cashew nut.

“He has an appointment with his therapist today. I'm sure he'll be back tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Neil says, “right.”

His foot taps restlessly against the bottom step. He can't quite imagine Andrew in a therapist's office, but it makes sense that he has one, if he's taking antidepressants of his own volition.

“Can I ask you something?”

Renee looks at him for a long moment, then nods.

“Andrew said you might,” she says.

Neil hesitates. “You know about his medication,” he begins, stops short again.

“His antidepressants,” Renee supplies encouragingly. “Yes. He and Bee are still trying things out in that department. I think the ones he has at the moment look promising, but in the end Andrew has the final say, of course.”

“Bee?”

“His therapist. I've been to see her a few times as well. She's very competent,” Renee says mildly and tugs her cross necklace out from under her collar. It flashes in a weak glint of sunlight.

“So you think it helps? What he's taking?” Neil asks again, trying to settle something in his chest that has been out of alignment ever since he saw the scars on Andrew's arms, the sneer on his face when he talked about his medication. Renee's smile is pensive and complicated, but there's no hint of worry in it.

“Yes,” she says firmly. “I think so.”

“He doesn't seem particularly happy,” Neil can't help blurting out after a pause. Feeling slightly awkward, he looks down at his sandwich, but he's not very hungry anymore.

“Antidepressants don't make people happy,” Renee says. “They make you functional, so you can seek your own happiness. It's not easy, when you've been through what Andrew's been through, but he's trying, Neil. He's trying to do right by himself. He's still here, he gets out of bed every morning, that's a tremendous achievement, all things considered.”

“He said something like that, too,” Neil mumbles, remembering. “Not in so many words, but...”

Renee's smile glows a little brighter.

“Every day for as long as I've known him, Andrew has found a reason to stay alive,” she says. “He's going to keep on looking for them. It's hard some days, but I believe in him, and I hope you can, too. He is worth it.”

Neil nods, swallowing down the hard lump in his throat. “Thanks, Renee,” he says, his voice scratchy, and Renee nods and finishes her tea. The stray cat that sometimes noses around in the backyard when Neil has his break there is back, perching atop the bins looking hungry, and Neil looks down at his tuna sandwich and breaks off a little piece to try and tempt it into coming closer. The cat hunkers down, eyes fixed on Neil's outstretched hand, but doesn't move.

“He's very cautious,” Renee tells him. “Don't take it personally. You just need to be patient. Here...” She takes the piece of sandwich from his fingers, gets up and walks halfway to the bins, then puts it down on the ground. The cat watches her progress back to the steps and waits to make sure that she sits down again before jumping off the bin and streaking over to the food to lap eagerly at the tuna.

“He let me pet him once,” Renee whispers. “But we're both pretending that never happened so he can keep his dignity.”

“I see,” Neil says slowly. “Are we talking about the cat or Andrew now?”

Renee lets out a small, startled laugh that sounds dirtier than Neil would have given her credit for. Then she grins, shrugs, and steals the last bite of Neil's tuna sandwich.

“Let's keep it ambivalent, hm?”

“Agreed,” Neil mutters, hiding a grin of his own.

“Did Dan assign you someone for the Secret Santa yet?”

“Oh, yeah,” Neil says, fidgeting the slip of paper out of his pocket. “I got -”

“Don't tell me,” Renee says quickly, “it's supposed to be a secret, remember?”

Neil nods and looks down at the name on the paper, relieved that it's Matt. His stomach still seizes up in vague terror at the thought of picking out a gift for someone, but at least Matt is easy compared to some of the others, and he's probably going to be thrilled about whatever Neil gets him, no matter what it is. He folds the paper back up and watches the cat slink around the periphery of the backyard, still eyeing them hopefully but not daring to approach.

He hopes he can tempt it a little closer next time, and makes a mental note to buy some proper cat food, and maybe a little cream cheese as well.

*

Andrew is back the next morning, no visible trace of the last few days left on him. It's too cold and miserable to spend their break on the back steps, but Andrew ambles out into the front room with two cinnamon raisin bagels after the lunch rush has died down and loudly demands coffee from Nicky.

“Why me,” Nicky grumbles as he knocks coffee grounds out of the filter, “ask your -”

Andrew slaps his backside with a tea towel, hard, and Nicky squeaks and starts steaming milk with no further protest. Neil takes one of the cinnamon bagels Andrew shoves at him and finds them two chairs by the window, golden Christmas lights dripping down the glass and illuminating the dreary view of the world outside. Christmas carols have been on repeat on all of the Foxhole's current playlists, and Aaron has threatened to chuck Nicky's laptop out of the window on at least three different occasions already. Nicky maintains his beat-up laptop is beyond caring, and pointedly queues up all of Aaron's least favourite songs whenever Aaron is around.

“Why does Aaron hate _Stille Nacht_ so much?” Neil asks when Andrew comes over with two coffees and a can of whipped cream. Andrew raises an eyebrow at him and slides over one of the mugs, then goes to town on his with the whipped cream.

“You speak German?”

“Um,” Neil says, burning his fingers on his mug. He should be more careful with his pronunciation – his mom would have hit him for the oversight. “Yes.”

“And you haven't told Nicky this?” Andrew asks, stretching languidly in his chair and licking cream from his upper lip. Aaron slams his book down at a nearby table and swears, probably infuriated all over again at Nicky's playlist, which has moved on to a heartfelt rendition of _O Tannenbaum_. “Maybe you're not as stupid as I thought.”

“He'd be insufferable,” Neil mutters around a mouthful of bagel.

“Of course,” Andrew says cheerfully. He takes another sip of his coffee and wipes his thumb over his lip, sucking whipped cream off the tip, eyes boring into Neil's.

“What?” Neil says, wiping a hand over his own mouth, “do I have something on my face?”

“Yes,” Andrew says flatly. “Cheekbones.”

Before Neil can figure out that particular weirdness, Andrew has stood up and left him alone with the sad remains of their bagels. Just to make sure he isn't covered in crumbs, Neil rubs both of his hands over his face, but they come away clean, and he sighs and clears their dishes away.

“For Christ's sake,” Aaron says loudly from where he's slouched down behind a barrier of several anatomy textbooks as Neil walks past. Neil isn't sure what's caused it this time, but he turns the volume of the music down a bit once he's back behind the counter and sends Nicky on his break before he can turn it back up, just in case Aaron is about to make good on his promise to throw Nicky's laptop out the window, because the Foxhole's poor windows don't deserve that fate, and Wymack already has a headache today.

*

For a week, Neil agonises over what to get Matt for the Secret Santa exchange, before finally caving and asking Allison for help. Allison's face lights up like a Christmas tree. The moment their joint morning shift ends, she drags him shopping with her, and before Neil knows what's happening, they are deep inside the bowels of a shopping mall of infinite proportions, eating soft serve ice cream and listening to what seems to just be _Last Christmas_ on a loop while Allison clears a path through the crowds and Neil, thoroughly overwhelmed, trails after her with his hood pulled low and his hands trembling in his sleeves.

“I need a new bra,” Allison announces as they pass a lingerie store. Alarmed, Neil stutters as she pulls him into the store after her, not sure where to look, so he focuses on his shoes instead, which look woefully out of place with their unravelling seams and peeling soles amid the frippery and lace of the garments on display. He really needs to buy a new pair soon, or he won't be able to run in them anymore.

“What do you think of this colour?” Allison asks, shoving a turquoise confection of sheer fabric and tiny mirrored surfaces in his face. The mirrors twinkle and flash in the light.

“I, uh,” Neil stammers awkwardly. “It's very. Visible?”

Allison snorts. “Relax, lover boy. It's just underwear.”

She tosses the turquoise bra back onto the hook and drags him deeper into the store, picking up a selection of pinks and reds instead, and one in plain orange with white paw prints on the straps that Neil rather likes. He waits outside the changing area while Allison tries them on, until Allison whips away the curtain and hollers for him, wanting his advice on one of the red ones, and Neil swallows and flicks his eyes only briefly downward before fixing his gaze back on her face.

“Looks fine,” he says quickly. Allison laughs.

“Oh, baby,” she croons, “you're allowed to look, you know. I notice you've never checked out my cleavage before. Usually Andrew's the only one who's so stubbornly immune. Even Nicky does it.”

“I don't want to,” Neil says, frowning, then bites his lip. “No offence to your... er, cleavage.”

“None taken,” Allison beams. “Don't run off. I need your opinion on the rest of these.”

In the end, she buys two of the pink ones, one of the red ones, and the orange one that Neil is somewhat partial to, and Neil breathes a sigh of relief when she leads him out of the store again and buys them both smoothies before they go looking for Matt's gift. By the time they leave the mall, Neil is carrying several of Allison's bags as well as some of his own, because Allison noticed his shoe situation and forced him to accept two new pairs, as well as some clothes and an assortment of fruity smelling shower gels she picked up in a Body Shop, two bottles of nail polish in blue and orange, some hair product, a truly ugly knitted Christmas sweater, and several DVDs after Neil made the mistake of admitting he hasn't seen any of them. He doesn't mention that he has no way of watching them, seeing as he owns neither a TV nor a laptop, but he figures he can maybe take them to the cousins' house some time.

“You didn't have to pay for all of that,” Neil mutters, for the third time, as Allison marches him over to where her pink convertible is parked and directs him to deposit his bags on the back seat.

“You're right, I didn't,” Allison says, “but I wanted to, so shut up and take it like a man. I've always wanted to be someone's sugar mommy.”

She laughs at the look on Neil's face and reverses out of the parking spot, turning the radio up to full volume and singing along, her voice wonderfully misaligned with the music, long nails clicking impatiently against the steering wheel when they get stuck in the five o'clock traffic.

Back at his apartment, Neil takes almost an hour to sort through his shopping. He kneels on the floor and spreads it all out around him, arranging and rearranging the piles, fussing with the shoe polish and wax Allison got him and clicking the bottles of shower gel open and shut until he accidentally gets a smear of purple passion fruit-scented goop on his sleeve. Feeling silly, he tidies everything away and takes his new clothes to the laundromat along with the week's laundry, trying out his new running shoes, and buys a roll of wrapping paper and some tape on the way back. He uses up almost half the tape on Matt's gift and gets several bits stuck in his hair in his frustration. The end result is halfway acceptable, but he decides to just wrap the thing he got for Andrew on a whim in one of the bags for now, and puts both away in a kitchen drawer before making some spaghetti and calling it an early night.

*

The week before Christmas, Wymack closes the Foxhole early one night and Abby cooks a fancy dinner for the entire staff. Neil is late, slightly rattled after a call from Agent Browning checking in on him, arriving just as the others are finishing rearranging the tables in the centre of the room. Somehow, the Christmas lights seem to have reproduced, and candles have made their way onto every surface, casting flickering shadows on the walls. Nicky is taping sprigs of mistletoe everywhere he can reach, Kevin is talking to Renee about Pagan holiday traditions, Dan is handing out cups of mulled wine, and Matt descends on Neil with a delighted roar and plonks a pair of light-up reindeer antlers on his head to match everyone else's. _Last Christmas_ is blaring from the speakers, and Neil catches Allison's eye across the room and smirks. She tugs at one of her bra straps, orange with paw prints, and gives him a thumbs up.

“Merry Christmas, buddy!” Matt shouts, slapping his back and pointing at the ugly Christmas sweater Neil is wearing. “Nice pattern, looks a bit like vomit.”

“Festive vomit,” Neil corrects with a grin. “Allison picked it out.”

“Good choice. Come on, dinner's almost ready.”

They help Renee set the table, and then Abby and Andrew come out of the kitchen with several steaming hot pies and Wymack makes everyone sit down in an almost orderly fashion. Matt sits next to Neil and insists on loading up his plate three times, until Neil is so full he feels like his stomach is going to burst at the seams. He reluctantly shares a small cup of mulled wine with Renee and listens to Nicky talk about German Christmas traditions, gesturing animatedly as he tries to explain the difference between hard and soft gingerbread. As the evening wears on, Neil lets himself get pleasantly drowsy, and groans when Abby brings out a platter of cupcakes swathed in brandy butter icing.

“I can't possibly eat any more,” he tells Matt, but has one anyway, surprised at how much he enjoys the spicy burst of dried fruit and ginger on his tongue as he bites into it.

“Andrew made these,” Abby announces slyly after everyone's gone either silent or moany stuffing themselves with the cupcakes. Andrew's face is impassive as ever, but he looks calm and balanced, content in a way Neil has rarely seen him. There is a smudge of icing high on Andrew's cheek and Neil is abruptly reminded of Andrew sucking whipped cream off his thumb. The mulled wine must be going to his brain, after all.

“Thank you, Andrew,” Renee is the first to recover her powers of speech. “They're lovely, can you give me the recipe?”

Andrew shrugs, tilting his chair back until Neil is sure he's going to topple over. Wymack catches him at the last moment and yanks it back down with a clatter. Andrew merely looks vaguely amused and takes another cupcake. After dinner, Nicky tries to start a Christmas carol singalong, with mixed success, and after everything's cleared away, Abby brings out the basket with the Secret Santa gifts and distributes everyone's presents, including one for herself and Wymack.

Neil has completely forgotten that he's getting one as well. The box in his lap is sleek and nondescript, expertly wrapped in dark blue paper, the handwriting on the tag neat and listing slightly sideways. He waits until everyone else has started unwrapping theirs before he slides his fingers underneath the tape, carefully folding back the paper to reveal the black box underneath. When he lifts the lid, he finds two pairs of earphones, one in blue, designed for sports, and a fancier looking pair in dark grey. Underneath a coiled-up charger lies a thin grey device that turns out to be a brand new mp3 player. Despite not paying much attention to Dan's little speech about Secret Santa, Neil is pretty sure they were supposed to get small, inexpensive gifts, and the items in the box all look anything but. He swallows, looks up and catches Andrew watching him, his own present still unopened in his lap.

Neil quirks an eyebrow at him. Andrew shrugs and looks away.

Somehow, Neil manages to hide his present from the others, aided by the uproar of Nicky swapping Aaron's actual gift with a CD of the cheesiest Christmas carols ever produced, and Abby and the girls forcing Wymack to put his new fox print boxer shorts on over his jeans. Matt plasters half the bag of temporary tattoos that Neil and Allison picked out for him over his arms and face at once, looking delighted, and Andrew swaps his plain black armbands for a new pair embroidered with tiny gingerbread men. Amid the ruckus, Renee slips away from Dan and Allison and motions for Neil to follow her, stopping by her bag to fetch a small foil container of Christmas edition cat food, and they sit on the back steps together and wait for their little friend to show up.

“Did you like your gift, then?” Renee asks casually, her jacket pulled tight around her shoulders against the cold.

“I,” Neil says, “do you know who...”

“Can't you guess?” Renee smiles.

“Why?” Neil asks, letting his lighter dance over his knuckles and through his fingers like he was once taught to do with a knife. He stops himself when he remembers that this is a habit he has been trying to shake.

“Andrew doesn't usually participate in these exchanges,” Renee tells him instead of answering the question. “He was willing to join this year on the condition that we rigged it so he'd get assigned your name.”

“I still don't understand,” Neil sighs, frowning down at his hands.

“Maybe you should ask him yourself,” Renee says softly. She gets up even though the cat hasn't shown its ugly face yet, and Neil is about to follow her when he notices the person standing behind her in the doorway.

“Andrew...”

“You forgot this,” Andrew says, tossing the box in Neil's lap as Renee squeezes past him. He sits down in the spot she vacated and slips Neil's lighter out of his hand to light a cigarette for himself. Neil takes out the mp3 player again, the case cool and smooth under his fingertips, and turns it around in his hands.

“Switch it on,” Andrew says. Neil does, blinking when it lights up, and clumsily flicks through the menu. There's a handful of playlists already on it, titled things like _shut up nicky_ and _run fox run_ and _go the fuck to sleep_. Neil laughs a bit and clicks on a playlist named _you are a pipe dream_ , which he assumes is a lyric from one of the songs, but before he can scroll through them all, he accidentally hits play and something slow, melodic, carried by piano and strings and a simple voice drifts out.

For a while, Neil loses himself in the music. He doesn't know what sort of music he would have expected Andrew to like before, and while he's sure it wouldn't have been this, somehow it makes perfect sense now, and he closes his eyes and drifts, sleepy and calm, as the playlist unfolds song by song like a flower bud, each balanced just right with the rest.

“Still conscious?” Andrew drawls in between songs, nudging Neil's elbow with his own. Neil opens his eyes, about to say something, when he catches sight of the cat, cautiously picking its way across the backyard toward the food Renee has deposited by the bins.

“He's back,” Neil whispers excitedly, “look!”

Andrew follows his gaze and huffs when he spots the cat. “Mangy little rat,” he mutters. “Is that cat food?”

“Renee brought it,” Neil replies, a little sheepish. “He always looks so hungry, poor thing.”

“You're ridiculous,” Andrew tells him idly.

“Hmm,” Neil hums, distracted as he watches the cat. Andrew picks up the mp3 player, turns it off in the middle of a song, and tosses it back in its box.

“I'm driving Renee home,” he announces. “Nicky's going to ask you to spend Christmas at our place, by the way.”

“Mm,” Neil says, “wait, what?”

Andrew wiggles his fingers at him in a little mock-wave, already walking back inside. Neil stares after him, and when he turns back, the cat is gone, and Neil can't find his lighter anywhere. Andrew must have pocketed it by accident. He sighs, gets up and brushes himself off, throws the empty cat food tin away and goes back inside, where the party is slowly breaking up, with Matt and Dan slow-dancing in the middle of the room while Aaron shoves the tables back into some semblance of order and Kevin helps Abby clean up in the kitchen.

“Neeeiiillll,” Nicky sings, popping up at his side and throwing an arm around him. “Neil, you foxy fox, I need to talk to you about a thing, come on.”

He ushers Neil back down the hallway and into Wymack's dark office. Neil fumbles around for a light switch and shuts his eyes against the sudden brightness, and when he opens them again, Nicky is standing right in front of him, leaning close and brushing a sprig of mistletoe over his shoulder.

“Hey, look at that,” he whispers, and all of a sudden he's kissing Neil on the mouth.

Neil stands frozen, unable to return the warm pressure on his lips or even push him away. His brain is still catching up with the last few seconds, and Nicky steps away only moments later, something between a sigh and a laugh bursting from his mouth.

“Sorry,” he says bitterly, “I had to do that just the once. Don't tell Andrew.”

Neil curls his hands around the sleeves of his sweater, fingernails digging holes into the knit. His reindeer antlers slide to the floor with a soft thump.

“What about Erik?” Neil asks, his voice oddly hoarse in his throat. Nicky smiles sadly and hangs his head.

“We have an arrangement,” he says, and gestures between him and Neil. “This is allowed, so long as no feelings are involved.”

“Oh,” Neil says, and then relief shakes through him. “So you don't – you're not -”

“No,” Nicky says quickly, “no offence, I absolutely one hundred percent would, you know, but not, no. God, no. My gay little heart belongs to Erik. Whole-heartedly, so to say. I'm just maudlin I won't see him over Christmas.”

“Right,” Neil says, “good. I mean...”

“Yeah.”

They stand facing each other awkwardly for a while, and then Nicky bends down and picks up the reindeer antlers and holds them out to him. Neil takes them reflexively, but doesn't put them back on.

“Look,” Nicky says, scrubbing a hand through his hair, “I did actually want to talk to you about something. Renee mentioned that you don't celebrate Christmas, and I thought – well, it's okay if you have other plans, but if you want, you could spend Christmas with us. My cousins don't _celebrate_ anything, of course, but we usually get some nice food and some booze – not mandatory, of course – and I found this massive tree, and... well, it'd be nice if you came.”

Neil is quiet for so long that Nicky feels the need to tack on “I promise I won't kiss you again” with a nervous laugh.

“Nicky! Where the fuck are you!” Aaron yells outside, and Nicky rolls his eyes.

“Okay, look. Why don't you just... think about it, alright, and if you want to join us whenever, just shoot me a text, or, hell, show up at our house, you know where we live. Or don't. No pressure. Okay?”

“Okay,” Neil finally makes himself say, and Nicky nods, satisfied, and pats his shoulder awkwardly before joining the others in the front room, switching back to his usual cheer in a heartbeat and belting out the chorus of _Jingle Bells_ as he throws himself at Aaron and tries to force him into a stiff kind of dance that ends in both of them knocking over a table and nearly taking Kevin down with them. Wymack throws them all out soon after, and Neil walks home slowly, the box with Andrew's gift pressed to his chest, and sticks the reindeer antlers on top of his alarm clock before he goes to bed, watching the blinking lights until the battery winks out somewhere around two in the morning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's what I had in mind for the pipe dream playlist, but you are of course welcome to make your own!
> 
> 1\. Syml – Where's My Love // 2. Amber Run – Fickle Game // 3. Elliot Moss – Slip // 4. The National – Fireproof // 5. Haiku Salut – Los Elefantes // 6. Danny Schmidt – This Too Shall Pass // 7. Los Campesinos! - Romance Is Boring // 8. Nothing But Thieves – Last Orders // 9. Noah Gundersen – Oh Death // 10. Damien Rice – It Takes A Lot To Know A Man // 11. Zola Jesus – Run Me Out // 12. Tycho – Daydream // 13. ZHU – Faded (Odesza Remix) // 14. The Neighbourhood – R.I.P. 2 My Youth // 15. Nothing But Thieves – Honey Whiskey // 16. Elvis Depressedly – Weird Honey // 17. Bombay Bicycle Club – Lights Out, Words Gone // 18. Bell X1 – Starlings Over Brighton Pier // 19. Keaton Henson – 10am Gare Du Nord
> 
> Find it on [playmoss](https://playmoss.com/en/moonix/playlist/to-know-a-man) now! And shinee5/franzithebookworm was kind enough to upload it on [Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/user/franzithebookworm/playlist/2Es4klbSGTyHy1KHlgm5LW?si=GotedMbVQm-Ugobf9oPySg) as well.


	5. Worse And Better Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil goes to the cousin's house for Christmas, there is A Date, Josephine the jellyfish makes her grand appearance at last, and Erik comes to visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: reference to past rape; nightmares; Andrew has something like a dissociative episode (it's not written from his perspective but jsyk); Neil has a bad day and a flashback; someone throws up off-screen
> 
> Thank you, again, for all your lovely comments. I am having a bit of a rough time right now and it means a lot. <3

Since half the Foxhole's customers are college kids from the nearby campus and will be gone for the holidays, Wymack closes the Foxhole for a few days around Christmas, effectively forcing Neil and the others to take a holiday. Kevin has a minor meltdown about this, and Neil, too, feels strange when he leaves the coffee shop after his last shift before the unexpected holidays, and doesn't even last two days before he decides to take Nicky up on his offer after all. He sends him a text, painstakingly asking when he should come over and whether to bring anything specific, and gets several enthusiastic replies studded with smiley faces. Neil packs his duffel bag with necessities, remembers his present for Andrew at the last moment, and listens to the pipe dream playlist again on his way over to the cousins' house.

“Neil! You came,” Andrew greets him dryly at the door, takes Neil's bag and throws it unceremoniously to the side. “We're going grocery shopping.” He makes a twirly motion in the air with his finger, indicating for Neil to turn back around, and slams the door shut behind him. Someone yells something unintelligible after them, and Andrew ushers Neil over to the car, nearly shoving him inside.

“What's going on?” Neil says as Andrew yanks up the heating and turns on the radio. A thumping bass fills the interior of the car, loud enough that Neil winces, but Andrew doesn't bother turning down the volume and doesn't reply to his question.

Neil reaches over and turns the music off.

“Are we avoiding Nicky or Aaron?”

“Both,” Andrew grunts, slamming his fist on the button to turn the music back on. Neil rolls his eyes and lets him be.

At the store, Andrew picks out vegetables while Neil raids the fruit aisle, Christmas carols blaring over the speakers. Neil tries again - “so what's going on with Nicky and Aaron?” - and puts one more grapefruit into their shopping cart for every time Andrew doesn't answer the question. Andrew glares at the growing pile of grapefruit, clenches his jaw, and retaliates with carrots until Neil remembers he can just call Nicky and ask.

“Don't,” Andrew growls when Neil pulls out his phone, a grapefruit balanced on the outstretched palm of his other hand. With a last dirty look at the grapefruit, Andrew sighs and tosses his last carrot back on the pile. “Kevin drank himself into a stupor last night at the prospect of spending his first Christmas without Riko and threw up on the sofa, Erik called to say he's coming for a surprise visit, Nicky's been unbearably cheerful all morning and now Aaron is throwing a hissy fit because I won't let him invite Katelyn.”

“What is your problem with Katelyn?” Neil asks curiously, hanging off the side of the shopping cart as Andrew angrily pushes it down the pasta aisle.

“Nothing,” Andrew snaps. “Aaron and I have a deal. He's not holding up his end of it.”

“So you don't actually mind Katelyn?”

Andrew gives him a blank stare that says he wouldn't care either way if Katelyn won the Nobel prize or got hit repeatedly by a truck. Neil shrugs and sorts the packets of spaghetti into a neat pile, pressing himself close to the cart to avoid hitting the edge of a display as Andrew jerks them into the cereal aisle and grabs two boxes of frosted flakes with marshmallows.

“They seem pretty serious, from what Nicky's told me,” Neil says. “Maybe you need to make a new deal.”

“No,” Andrew says, grinding his teeth, and shoves him off the side of the cart.

It takes them two trips to get all the groceries into the house. Andrew puts the ice-cream away in the freezer, grabs a jar of Nutella and a spoon, and leaves the rest on the kitchen table for Nicky and Neil to put away, but Nicky is still delirious about the news of Erik's impending visit and is more of a hindrance than a help. Aaron is sulking somewhere, Kevin is sleeping off his epic hangover in Nicky's room, and the sofa still smells like vomit.

“And we're going to make Christmas cookies and go for a midnight walk and, oh, Neil, it's going to be so dreamy, I can't wait for it to be tomorrow, I don't think I've ever been so excited for Christmas,” Nicky babbles, and promptly explodes a packet of spaghetti all over the floor in his misplaced enthusiasm. A door slams somewhere in the house, and then Aaron is yelling “you're breaking our deal just as much as I am, you fucking hypocrite!” and thunders down the stairs. Moments later, the front door thunks shut, and Kevin wobbles into the kitchen looking pale and wan and whimpers “I threw up again” before crumpling on the floor.

“Fucking hell,” Neil sighs into the silence. He takes a few bracing breaths, then points a finger at Nicky. “You deal with Kevin. I'll handle... the rest of that mess.”

Obediently, Nicky shuffles over to Kevin and heaves him back to his feet. Neil starts by gathering up the wayward spaghetti and putting away the last of the groceries, then he makes himself a cup of tea for strength, gets some bleach and cleaning equipment, throws open the windows in the living room and attacks the sofa cushions until they're scrubbed to within an inch of their life. He props them up against the radiator, hoping they'll dry by the time he needs to sleep on them again, and goes upstairs to deal with the still present half of their last problem, who is currently eating Nutella in bed and watching YouTube videos on his laptop.

“I'm starting to get why you wanted to go out,” Neil says. He cranes his neck to see what Andrew is watching. “Is that a cat?”

Andrew grunts, sucking on his spoon, and shuffles over on the bed without looking away from his screen. Neil takes it as an invitation to sit next to him, and takes out the clementines he's brought with him, peeling one.

“You'll get diarrhea if you eat all of those,” Andrew says conversationally.

“Better than diabetes,” Neil shoots back with a pointed look at the half-empty jar of Nutella in Andrew's hand. Andrew waves his fingers dismissively, and Neil queues up another cat video before Andrew can swat his hand away from the laptop.

“Get your clementine juice off my things,” Andrew grumbles. Neil winks at him and puts his sticky fingers in his mouth, sucking off the juice, just as Nicky barges in without knocking.

“Hey guys -” He freezes, mouth comically open mid-sentence, and Neil drops his hand in his lap and checks that they're still watching the cat video and haven't moved on to something awkward or outrageous. “Oops,” Nicky grins, “am I interrupting something? Just wanted to let you know that Wymack's picking Kevin up in an hour and bringing over some food, courtesy of Abby. So you better... work up an appetite, if you know what I mean.”

“We're watching YouTube videos,” Neil says, frowning, and Andrew throws his spoon at Nicky with a well-aimed flick of his wrist. It smacks his forehead, leaving a chocolately smear, and Nicky yelps and pouts.

“Rude,” he huffs, but obligingly shuffles back toward the door. “I'll leave you to your, uh... cat videos!”

“What was that all about?” Neil asks, confused, once Nicky is gone.

“Nothing,” Andrew says and scowls. “He's just being a pain in the ass. Get me another spoon, Josten, mine's contaminated.”

“Get your own spoon. I'm not fuelling your diabetes campaign.”

Andrew grabs one of his clementines and throws it on the floor, his face a picture-perfect image of the cat in the current video, which is knocking things off a kitchen counter one by one.

“Very mature,” Neil says, hiding a grin in his sleeve, and peels his last clementine while Andrew screws the top back on his Nutella jar and hunkers down in his pillows with a tetchy sigh.

*

“The cushions are still damp,” Nicky says with a shrug. “You can just sleep in Andrew's bed, though, right? I mean, you've done it before and he didn't stab you, so... well, at least nowhere vital.”

He cackles, and Andrew shoves him against the fridge on his way to the dishwasher. Nicky's elbow makes an unholy sound knocking into the handle and he moans pitifully.

“One of these days you'll do me a serious damage, and then you'll be really sorry,” he sniffs, rubbing his abused arm.

“No I won't,” Andrew says.

Wymack has relieved them of the burden of a miserable, hungover Kevin, and Aaron is back in his room, in a better mood than earlier, though still unwilling to be in the same space as Andrew for longer than absolutely necessary. Neil dries the last pan and puts it away, drains the sink and finds himself a clean mug for some tea. Nicky, restless and giddy about Erik's impending arrival, migrates into the living room and turns on the television, leaving Neil alone with Andrew once again.

“Maybe I can make a bean bag nest,” Neil muses, waiting for the kettle to boil. “Do you want some hot chocolate?”

Andrew fishes the last clean mug from the shelf and gets the hot chocolate mix. He leans against the counter next to Neil and looks out of the window, gaze loose and drifting, his hands curled in the front pocket of his hoodie.

“You can sleep in my bed. Idiot.”

“You going to sleep in your armchair again? Didn't look very comfortable last time,” Neil says.

“Why, are you volunteering?” Andrew tosses back. The kettle clicks off and Neil fills their mugs. He stirs milk into his tea when it's done and pulls himself up to sit on the counter with his hands wrapped around his mug. Snowflakes are trundling down outside the window and the dishwasher gurgles and hums over the muffled sounds of the television coming from the living room.

“I've slept in worse places,” Neil finally says. “So, yeah, if you don't want me in your bed, I'm volunteering.”

“What sort of worse places?” Andrew asks.

Neil shrugs. “Floors, alleyways, bus stops, locker rooms... an old bathtub, once.”

“Runaway,” Andrew murmurs, half mocking, half understanding. He looks at Neil like he's figured out another piece of the puzzle, and Neil finds it terrifying and thrilling all at once.

“What's the worst place you slept in?” Neil asks, taking a sip of his tea. Andrew laughs, a bitter, defeated sound that settles like ash on everything around them, and Neil regrets his question at once.

“My bed,” Andrew says cryptically, drains his hot chocolate and sets the empty mug in the sink before leaving the room.

Neil spends the rest of the evening watching television with Nicky in the dark, feeling heavy and sticky and slow. Nicky nods off twice and finally goes to bed around midnight, and Neil, barely awake himself anymore, makes his way upstairs to brush his teeth and change into pyjamas. Light seeps out from under Andrew's door and Neil knocks, unsure if Andrew's offer of the bed still stands, but Andrew ushers him in without a word and goes to the bathroom while Neil arranges the extra pillow and blanket he's brought up next to Andrew's.

“Night,” he says when Andrew switches off the light and slides into the space between Neil and the wall. His bed is big enough for two, and Neil, who has grown up with the familiar weight of his mother on the mattress beside him, remembers again how reassuring it is not to be alone in the darkest hours of the night. He sighs, curls up tight on his side, and lets his brain shut down at last.

He wakes suddenly. Stale blue light hangs in the curtains like cold cigarette smoke and someone is breathing sharply close behind him. Neil holds very still until he remembers where he is and who he's with, then turns his body around as swiftly and quietly as he can manage. Andrew's hands are fisted into the pillow and his eyes are open, but they don't focus on Neil. The collar of his shirt is damp with sweat.

“Andrew,” Neil whispers. Still Andrew doesn't react. Neil wants to reach out, touch his arm and loosen his death grip on the pillow, but his instincts tell him that's a very bad idea right now, so he tries calling his name again.

“Andrew, wake up.”

A shudder runs through Andrew's body and he blinks, slowly, his breathing still laboured and short. His hands don't relax, but his eyes start sliding over Neil's face, again and again, as if his features keep blurring out of focus.

“It's me, Neil,” Neil says. “You're at home, in your bed. It's the twenty-fourth of December, about half past seven in the morning. You had a nightmare. You're safe.”

Andrew draws in a shivery breath. His gaze comes to rest on the scars that run down Neil's right cheek.

“Yeah, that's right, you remember me,” Neil whispers, and lifts a careful hand to trace those scars with a fingertip. He's spent so much energy avoiding them lately that it makes his hand shake just to touch them, but Andrew's eyes track the movement hungrily, so he does it again. “I showed you those scars when we first started having lunch together. You told me your favourite cake was white chocolate and raspberry. I think you were lying, though. I think your favourite is the lemon meringue, because of the way you lick your spoon clean after.”

Neil keeps talking. He spins whispered nonsense, mixing together theories and memories and things the others have told him like paint to make new colours in the air between them. He's not sure if Andrew's listening or if he's stuck too far inside his own head, but gradually, Andrew's body relaxes its desperate curl around the pillow, and his eyes start to drift shut. Neil can hear Nicky rummaging around and singing to himself in the bathroom, up early presumably because he's too excited about his boyfriend coming to visit to stay in bed, but he doesn't dare get up for fear of disturbing Andrew. Thin, tentative sunlight tickles the top of his head. Another hour passes and Neil continues to watch over Andrew's fitful sleep, keeping his body still the way his mom taught him, his vulnerable mind ablaze with memories of his time on the run. He lets them float past. Lets himself grieve some of the things he's lost.

It's almost ten by the time Andrew jerks awake, and Neil feels bone-tired and exhausted, his legs a dead weight on the mattress. He doesn't even feel like going for a run. Andrew looks at him with piercing hazel eyes for a long moment, then blinks and pushes himself up on his elbow, searching for the clock beside his bed.

“The fuck,” he mutters, softly.

“Morning,” Neil yawns. “You okay?”

Andrew shoots him an irritated glance and sits up. His grey t-shirt is still clammy and he grimaces, flexes his arms like they're sore, then climbs out of bed and grabs a handful of clothes before disappearing into the bathroom. Neil listens to the sound of running water and tries to go back to sleep, but it's too late in the day and his heart is hammering away in his throat.

He drifts for a while, snapping awake from time to time like coming up for breath in between being pressed under water but unable to stop. Someone says his name and his body sits bolt upright in bed before his mind catches up, heartbeat singing under his skin.

“I'm awake,” he says stupidly, groping around for his blanket that seems to have suddenly disappeared.

“I can see that,” Andrew snorts and holds up the missing blanket. “Go take a shower. You look like a beached jellyfish.”

Neil raises an eyebrow at the metaphor, but obediently shuffles off to the bathroom. When he comes back, feeling a little more settled in his shaking body, Andrew has changed the sheets and made the bed, both sets of pillows and blankets still there, even though the sofa cushions must be dry by now and there's no more need for Neil to hog Andrew's bed.

“Come on,” Andrew says, pocketing his phone and keys. “Nicky's having a cleaning frenzy and I want pancakes.”

They take the car and drive to the nearest Denny's, where Andrew drowns his pancakes in maple syrup and cuts them into small, precise rectangles before eating, while Neil plays with his omelette and watches the rain. Most of the snow from the night before has frozen to dirty clumps on the side of the street.

“Have you ever been to an aquarium?” Andrew asks him out of the blue once it becomes clear that Neil isn't going to finish his breakfast.

“No,” Neil says, “why?”

Andrew just nods, waves the waitress over to pay for their food, and leads Neil outside to the car. He takes a different route than the one they came, the radio blissfully silent today, and Neil doesn't even notice they're leaving town until they're on the highway, speeding past grey, sodden landscapes and peeling billboards. Andrew's driving is recklessly fast but steady, skilled, confident; other cars loom up out of the mist and are whipped away again in the space of a blink.

“Where are we going?” Neil asks groggily, forehead braced against the window.

“You'll see,” Andrew says.

They drive for half an hour, and then Andrew turns off the highway and parks in front of a large, chunky building. Neil stumbles out of the car, head full of cotton, and squints up at the animated sign.

“An aquarium?” he asks. “Really?”

“Really,” Andrew says and gives him a little nudge. They walk to the entrance together and wait in line behind a group of screaming children, and Andrew pays for two tickets and tugs Neil through the turnstile.

They walk around for an hour, sticking to the less frequented corners, never straying far from each other. Neil follows wherever Andrew decides to go, soothed by the rippling lights and flashes of colour, the low murmur of voices around them, the slow progress of a turtle at the side of a pond, the repetitive motion of jellyfish floating in their tank, bodies contracting like so many beating pink hearts.

“Look,” Andrew murmurs, leaning over his shoulder and pointing at a small, rather bedraggled looking jellyfish that drifts past them on a current. “That one's you.”

“Thanks,” Neil says dryly. “Which one are you?”

“The common kingslayer,” Andrew replies smugly. “One of the smallest and most venomous jellyfish in the world.”

“Nah, you're one of the big cuddly ones. Come on, I want to look at the sharks again.”

“Sharks are boring,” Andrew grumbles, but follows Neil out of the room and back to the shark tanks anyway, sticking another strip of bright pink chewing gum in his mouth and blowing bubbles at Neil every time Neil's attention slips away.

The light is already getting dim when they finally emerge from the depths of the aquarium. Neil's stomach makes a growly noise, so Andrew deposits him at the cafeteria with an egg salad sandwich and a styrofoam cup of weak tea while he disappears outside for a smoke. He takes a long time, and Neil finishes his sandwich and gets them two more for the drive back, since Andrew's only had pancakes today and it's still too early for dinner.

Andrew is waiting by the car, a plastic bag dangling from his arm. He gets in and accepts half an avocado sandwich and a peach iced tea, then turns on the ignition and tosses the bag in Neil's lap.

“What is it?” Neil asks, peering cautiously inside. It's something soft and bright pink and tentacley, and when he upends the bag, a stuffed jellyfish tumbles out, as anatomically correct as possible considering it's made out of plush.

“Ooh,” Neil says, “can she sleep in your bed too?”

“No.”

“Rude,” Neil whispers, pressing his mouth where he assumes the jellyfish's ear would be, if jellyfish had ears. “Why didn't you tell me you were going to the gift shop? I would have gotten you something, too.”

“Something hideous, no doubt,” Andrew mutters.

“Now, be nice,” Neil chides. “Or I won't give you your Christmas present.”

“If it's anything fruit-related, I swear to god -”

“Wouldn't you like to know,” Neil chuckles, then curls up against the window with the jellyfish clutched protectively to his stomach. “Josephine and I are taking a nap, wake us when we get home.”

He closes his eyes, waiting, and hides a smirk in his sleeve at the vaguely insulted mutter of “ _Josephine?_ ” from Andrew, who's never told him his middle name, but who has a very chatty cousin, so that sometimes precious tidbits of information like this one come out nevertheless. _Big and cuddly_ , Neil thinks, squishing Josephine, and falls asleep with a smile.

*

It's dark when he wakes up.

He's slumped against the window of a car that isn't moving, a crick in his neck, hunger twisting in his stomach and his mouth dry and sour, something soft clutched in his hands that doesn't feel like his duffel bag. Maybe they're at a rest stop. Maybe his mom is getting them something to eat. With a sickening lurch, he realises that he can't remember his current name, and the sounds are all wrong – the silence too thick – his hands aren't bound but his thoughts fast-forward to Lola and her knives and the agony of a dashboard lighter pressed too close to his eye.

“Neil.”

There it is. His name. It sinks to the bottom of his mind like a smooth stone in a rain-lashed pond, and he lets it ground him, anchor him. Neil. His name is Neil Josten. He works at the Foxhole. The car is Andrew's. His hands are free.

Neil opens his eyes, gulping in air. They're parked in front of the cousins' house with the engine off and the car dark and silent. The jellyfish Andrew gave him is nestled in his lap. The sandwiches are gone, and Andrew is sitting in the driver's seat, both thumbs hooked around the bottom of the steering wheel, his shoulders relaxed.

“Sleep well?”

Neil rubs at his eyes and unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “How long've we been back?” he mumbles, peering at the lit-up windows of the house in front of them. “Why didn't you wake me?”

“You need all the beauty sleep you can get,” Andrew says dismissively. His thumbs tap a brief rhythm on the steering wheel and he frowns. “Neil. Don't do that again.”

“Do what again?”

Andrew's jaw works, and he bites out “Compromise yourself, just because you think you need to watch out for me.”

Andrew's voice is low and quiet and he's staring out at the blinking Christmas decorations on the house next door, avoiding Neil's eyes. Neil blinks, clears his throat, and rolls his shoulders against the tension in his muscles.

“What do you mean?” he murmurs, and Andrew finally turns his head to look at him, all expression carefully wiped from his face.

“Last night,” Andrew says curtly. “You talked to me.”

“Oh,” Neil smiles. “So you did hear. Sorry, I would have gone for more exciting stories if I'd known -”

“Shut up,” Andrew snaps. “Promise you won't do that again.”

Neil is silent. Thinks of Andrew's hands clenched in the pillow, the dead look in his eyes. The way he watched Neil touching his own scars like a lifeline.

“No,” he says, “I can't promise that. But I'll come up with a better strategy next time.”

Andrew makes a disgusted noise before heaving himself out of the car. He doesn't wait for Neil, who scrambles to follow him inside on unsteady legs, and they both squint in the warm, bright lights of the hallway. Jazzy music is drifting out of the living room and the house smells clean and cinnamony, something is baking in the kitchen, and there's an odd, unfamiliar atmosphere in the air that Neil doesn't think has anything to do with how tidy everything is for once. It takes him a moment to place it: it's peace, homeliness, warm and simple.

“How domestic,” Andrew mutters, peering into the kitchen. Neil kicks off his shoes and hangs up his jacket, settles Josephine on the bottom stair and checks the living room, but everything is deserted, the music playing to no one. He leaves it on and pads back into the kitchen, where Andrew is crouched in front of the oven, watching a tray of cookies that look almost done.

“Where is everyone?” Neil asks, fishing a mug from the shelf and trying to find the box of Tetley that he and Andrew bought the day before, but Nicky's cleaning frenzy must have reached as far as the inside of the kitchen cabinets, because everything seems to be in a different place. “Ah,” Neil remembers, “didn't Nicky need the car to pick up Erik?”

“Matt drove him,” Andrew says, “and you just answered your own question.”

Neil frowns, but at that moment, a door opens down the hall, and a very dishevelled looking Nicky wearing only a pair of boxers and a t-shirt several sizes too big for him stumbles into the kitchen, pink-faced and glowing. A bright red mark climbs up the side of his neck.

“Oops,” he giggles, “didn't hear you guys come in. Can you check the cookies for me? I nearly burned the first batch.”

Andrew shoots Neil a pointed look and bends down to get the tray out of the oven.

“Aaron?”

“At Katelyn's,” Nicky says, looking a little worried, but Andrew merely shrugs and stuffs one of the cookies in his mouth even though they must be piping hot.

“Did he leave before or after you started fucking?” he asks conversationally, and Neil drops the box of Tetley that he's finally managed to locate.

“What do you think,” Nicky grins, giving his cousin the finger. “Don't eat all of those cookies, I wanna decorate them later. We ordered pizza, by the way.”

He saunters off, humming, and Andrew eats five more cookies out of spite until Neil takes the tray away from him and puts it somewhere safe to cool off. The pizza arrives soon after, and Neil is introduced to a ridiculously tall German who looks like he could carry both Andrew and Neil on his shoulders and still have room to spare. Erik apologises for the delay with a twinkle in his eye, gives his hand a firm shake, and smiles so brightly he eclipses both the strings of Christmas lights and the lit-up Christmas tree in the living room. Next to him, Nicky looks delicate and gooey, and he's as cheerful as ever, but there's also genuine happiness radiating off him in waves, and Neil marvels at how much of a difference it makes.

Over dinner, Neil chats to Erik about German politics and the merits of snack pretzels versus soft pretzels and pretzel rolls. Nicky gapes at him, but saves his tantrum about having been kept in the dark about the fact that Neil's spent some time in Germany, possibly because the minute he draws breath, Erik distracts him with a kiss. Neil politely averts his eyes and picks the mushrooms off his pizza slice, sorting them in a neat pile next to the olives. Andrew rolls his eyes and scrapes both on his plate.

“Where in Munich did you live?” Erik asks Neil when they clear away the plates. Nicky is icing cookies on the table while Andrew eats chocolate chips out of a bag and makes rude suggestions on how to decorate the cookies. Neil tenses at the question, alarm bells going off in his head, but he forces himself to relax and sorts the leftover pizza slices into one box.

“Um. Hadern, thereabouts.”

“Hadern!” Erik laughs. “That's grim man, my condolences.”

Neil grimaces, but can't help laughing along. “Yeah. Yeah, it was. There was a nice kebab place, though. I think I ate my weight in kebabs for about a month.”

“Fair enough,” Erik grins. “There's a kebab place in Berlin that's so famous they run adverts at the big cinemas. I took Nicky there the first time he came to Berlin and we had to wait in line for almost an hour. Met some nice kids, chatted up an old lady...”

“On Mehringdamm?” Neil guesses.

“That's the one,” Erik says, surprised. “Did Nicky tell you about it?”

“Ah, no. I also lived in Berlin for a while. Mom and I moved around a lot,” Neil admits, trying to convince his lungs not to seize up in terror at revealing so much. He looks up and catches Andrew's eyes across the room, his gaze heavy and intense, and a shiver trips down his spine at the persistent feeling of being _seen_.

“The world's a small place,” Erik says merrily. Neil thinks of the ever-present threat of his father hanging over them no matter where they went or how far they ran, and can't help but agree.

“Erik!” Nicky wails. “Andrew keeps drawing penises on my Christmas tree cookies!”

“I didn't hear you complaining about having a dick in your mouth earlier,” Andrew shrugs.

Erik throws his head back and laughs, a wild, wholesome sound. He claps Neil on the shoulder and bends over the cookies spread out on the table to dry.

“Hmm. I think they look rather tasty,” he smirks, and Nicky swats his arm weakly, looking almost flustered.

“Don't say that where Aaron can hear you, he'll hate me for a month.”

“He already hates you,” Andrew points out mercilessly. Nicky's cheer crumbles minutely for a moment, but he recovers quickly and throws down the jar of sprinkles with a defeated sigh.

“Fine, you decorate the rest then. Erik and I are going to make full use of Aaron's absence, excuse us.”

Erik promptly picks Nicky up and throws him over his shoulder before carrying him out of the kitchen, Nicky shrieking and laughing, and then the door to Nicky's bedroom falls shut behind them, and Andrew picks up one of the unfinished cookies and puts it in his mouth.

“He said decorate, not eat,” Neil grins. “Here, I'll help you.”

Together, they ice the rest of the cookies, and Andrew watches as Neil goes a little crazy with the various different sprinkles of all shapes and colours that Nicky has lined up on the table, apparently done with drawing dicks now that Nicky isn't there to be antagonised by it. Neil puts down the last cookie and licks a smear of icing from the palm of his hand. His fingers are sticky all over. He contemplates them for a moment before getting up to wash his hands, and his elbow bumps Andrew by accident as Andrew comes up beside him to put the bowls in the sink.

“Hey,” Neil says, “I had a good time today. Thank you.”

Andrew scoffs a bit, but doesn't say anything. For a moment, they both stand there, letting the warm water run over their hands long after the last remnants of icing are gone. Andrew's hands are broad and strong, slightly calloused, the nails much neater than Neil's, which are ragged and chewed up, have been even before Lola made such a mess of his hands.

It's Andrew who withdraws first. He turns off the water, lets the bowls sit in the suds, and motions for Neil to follow him upstairs. Neil picks up Josephine on the way, and after a short, silent tug of war between him and Andrew, Neil takes her to bed with him, settling her in between their pillows so she can watch over both of them. He can't even remember if he's ever owned a stuffed animal before.

“Night, Andrew,” he says when they turn off the lights. “Night, Josephine.”

“Shut the fuck up and go to sleep,” Andrew says.

 


	6. Wanting And Asking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas presents get exchanged, a snowball fight happens, Andrew and Aaron re-negotiate their deal, and, finally, some tender smooching happens, and Matt gives his favourite Fox some brotherly advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: not much for this chapter I think? The Katelyn issue gets resolved so there are some mentions of that. There's also a brief mention of Renee and Andrew sparring with knives.
> 
> In celebration of me passing my exam, here's chapter six with - gasp - kissing! Thanks for all the comments, you are all so sweet, look after yourselves and have a good week everyone <3

Nicky and Erik sleep in the next day. Andrew gets up early, but he is grumpy and monosyllabic until Neil settles him in a bean bag in front of the television with a mug of sweet coffee, the Christmas tree lights blinking obnoxiously in the corner. Neil goes for a quick morning run, showers and fixes them two bowls of oatmeal before he fetches his Christmas present for Andrew, which Andrew pointedly ignores until they've finished their breakfast and Neil nudges the bag closer to him with his foot.

“Open it,” he says. “I promise it's not fruit.”

Andrew grunts like he doesn't believe him, but picks it up anyway. He stares at it for a while longer, until Neil starts to worry that maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all, and then Andrew turns the bag upside down and watches the glossy book tumble into his lap.

“Well, that's offensive,” Andrew says.

“It's not fruit,” Neil grins. The book is titled _Baking with vegetables_ , and sports a picture of a lush chocolate beetroot cake on the front cover, deep pink on the inside with dark chocolate oozing down the sides. Even Neil has to admit it looks appealing, even though he's firmly anti beetroot, or any sorts of vegetably roots that aren't potatoes.

“For that, I'll force-feed you an entire carrot zucchini cake,” Andrew says, flipping idly through the book. “Or maybe the parsnip muffins?”

Neil shudders. “How about pumpkin? I'm okay with pumpkin.”

“Boring. There's a chocolate avocado cheesecake you would probably like, but I'm insulted by the very idea, so I'm not making that one.”

In the end, Andrew settles for spiced sweet potato muffins with cream cheese icing, and by the time Nicky and Erik stumble out of the bedroom, the kitchen smells like gingerbread spice and Neil has managed to put his elbow in the bowl of icing by accident. Nicky complains that they started opening presents without him and Erik surprises them by setting a whole pile of gifts under the tree, including some for the twins and one for Neil, who feels awkward about not having anything for either of them and offers to cook dinner for everyone later.

Aaron comes back that afternoon and Nicky drags them all outside for a walk, bundled up against the cold and the fresh snow that has fallen over night. Nicky and Erik walk with their arms around each other, Aaron is texting non-stop, and Neil and Andrew bring up the rear, Nicky's laughter echoing through the mostly deserted park.

“I like the playlists you made me,” Neil tells Andrew, his hands shoved deep in his pockets because he's forgotten his gloves. “Especially the one for running.”

“Of course,” Andrew snorts. “Junkie.”

Neil smiles. They've slowed almost to a stop. Up ahead, Nicky is attempting to build a snowman, but keeps getting distracted by Erik stealing kisses, and Aaron has wandered off to take a phonecall, presumably from his girlfriend.

“You should let him invite Katelyn tomorrow,” Neil says softly.

“And why should I do that,” Andrew says.

“Haven't you noticed how happy Nicky is? Your brother's a miserable bastard – bit like you, really – but I have a feeling he'd be a lot more agreeable if you just let him hang out with his girlfriend. It's not like she'll be moving in. Just... for tea, or something.”

“ _For tea_ ,” Andrew mocks. “Why the fuck are you so obsessed with tea, anyway?”

“Must be my British roots. Don't change the topic.”

“What will you give me?” Andrew asks, an echo of the last time Neil asked him to lay off Katelyn, and Neil swallows thickly and looks away, watching Nicky's aborted attempts at shaping something vaguely human-looking out of the snow.

“What do you want?” he asks at last.

Andrew is silent for such a long time that Neil feels the need to step closer to him, to remind him that he's still waiting for an answer. Andrew's breath ghosts over Neil's face, and his gaze flickers down from Neil's eyes to his mouth and back up.

“Aaron, no!”

The shout makes Neil jerk back in reflex, but before he knows what's going on, a snowball hits Andrew in the side of his neck with a fat, wet splatter. Nicky looks torn between horror and laughter, and Aaron is calmly forming a second snowball in his hands, one eyebrow raised in lazy challenge.

“Are we going to let him get away with that?” Neil murmurs, already composing a battle plan, his eyes darting left and right in search of something they can shelter behind.

“I don't know,” Andrew says, completely unaffected by the snow dripping down his collar. “Are we?”

“Hell no,” Neil grins, launches himself at the nearest bench and scoops up a big handful of snow. His aim is perfect, but Aaron dodges at the last moment, and his own snowball hits Nicky on the shoulder, who shrieks in outrage and joins the fray. Minutes later, there is an all-out war going on, and Neil can't stop laughing even though his bare hands hurt from the cold and he has snow in his hair and in his boots.

In the end, they all traipse back home shivering and soaked, still arguing over who actually won the fight, and Andrew manages to secure the bathroom for Neil first even though Nicky and Erik are already late for the church service they were planning to attend. When Neil comes out, pink and steaming from a hot shower, Nicky hurriedly tugs Erik in after him and locks the door, and Neil finds Aaron in the kitchen, looking oddly peaceful as he nibbles on a sweet potato muffin.

“How did you do it?” Aaron asks him, looking at him like he's seeing Neil for the first time.

“Do what?”

“Get him to agree,” Aaron says. “Mind you, I don't know if Katelyn even wants to come. After all he's done to her...” His eyes blister and boil with sudden rage, but they calm again within seconds, smoothed over by the same kind of careful apathy that Andrew employs whenever his actual apathy is disrupted by something too open and vulnerable.

“I asked,” Neil says, shrugging. “Maybe you should try it some time.”

Aaron's upper lip curls, but he's all talked out it seems, and when Nicky and Erik are done in the bathroom, he meekly agrees to join them for church. Andrew is running himself a bath, so Neil lies down on his bed and puts his earbuds in, about to queue up one of Andrew's playlists when he notices that there is a new one that Andrew must have added while he was in the shower. The title seems to be another set of lyrics –  _i'm not your answer_ – and Neil clicks on it, closing his eyes as the first song starts playing.

The bed dips and alerts him to Andrew's return. Neil tugs at one of the earbuds, smiling as Andrew settles on his side of the bed, and offers it to him. Andrew huffs, but takes it and tucks it in his ear, and they lie facing each other, listening to the music, watching each other and being watched in return.

“I like it,” Neil says as the last song on the list ends.

“I hate you,” Andrew mutters. He smells like brownies from the chocolate-scented bath salts Nicky's given him for Christmas.

“Abram,” Neil says. “That's my middle name. In case you ever want to name a cute stuffed animal after me.”

“Why would I name anything cute after you?”

“Excuse you,” Neil grins, “I am very cute.”

“You are a nuisance who constantly sticks his ugly face where it doesn't belong,” Andrew says.

“Mm. And yet you haven't thrown me out yet.”

“Your coffee is acceptable and your presence means that Nicky talks to me less.”

“Nicky? Talk less? I'm amazed my brain didn't just spontaneously combust at the grammatical crime of putting these two things together in the same sentence,” Neil says, then turns serious again. “Andrew. Promise you won't attack Katelyn again if she comes over.”

Andrew just looks blankly at him, and Neil wonders what he has left to give him in exchange for that promise.

“What do you want?” he asks tentatively, because Andrew never gave him an answer to that.

“Nothing,” Andrew says, his voice low and slightly rough with irritation. “I already made a different deal with Aaron.”

“Oh, good,” Neil says, and rolls over to put the mp3 player away. When he turns back, nuzzling into his pillow, Andrew sighs a very deep sigh and rubs a hand over his face.

“Neil,” he says, slowly and clearly like he's talking to a child. “I want to kiss you. Not as payment, just... Yes or no?”

The words swirl like lazy dust motes in Neil's brain, not making sense. He's dimly aware that he's staring – possibly with his mouth open – but Andrew just waits, patient and steady.

“But,” Neil stammers, “but you just said you hate me.”

“Every inch of you,” Andrew murmurs. “Doesn't mean I wouldn't blow you.”

Neil can feel his face heat up at those words. Every reply he can think of dries up on his tongue. Slowly, Andrew reaches up one hand, giving him enough time to pull away if he wants to, and touches the tips of his fingers to Neil's throat, finding his rabbit-quick pulse. Neil swallows and stares at Andrew's mouth.

“Even though I have an ugly face?” Neil jokes weakly, his attempt at a laugh more like a pathetic breathy wheeze.

“Hmm,” Andrew hums, eyes sliding deliberately downward over Neil's body. “Luckily for you, blowjobs don't require eye contact.”

“I wouldn't know,” Neil mumbles. Andrew pulls his eyes back up to Neil's face, and Neil's stomach squeezes itself into a fist for a short, breathtaking moment as Andrew licks his lips and holds his gaze.

“You still haven't answered my question,” Andrew points out. Neil is very good at not answering questions. He isn't sure if he's good at kissing, and he also isn't sure if Andrew would still be very keen on putting his mouth anywhere else on him if he saw what Neil looks like under his shirt, but if there's anything he's learned despite his mom's best attempts to the contrary, it's to take opportunities like this and roll with them, because who knows if he'll still be around – or even _alive –_ the next time one happens to come around.

“Yes,” he says firmly. Andrew keeps his fingers on Neil's pulse for a moment longer, then moves them up to cradle his chin.

He shuffles closer, but keeps a little bit of space between their bodies, his fingertips the only point of contact between them. The first touch of lips is hesitant, awkward, tense like they're both waiting for the other to jerk away, but when Neil relaxes into it, Andrew does too, and their mouths unfurl against each other, tasting and exploring, sweet and unhurried. Neil's stomach is still doing weird, squeezy things and his breath keeps hitching. He wonders if Andrew notices. And then Andrew opens his mouth against his and deepens the kiss, and Neil makes an embarrassing sound somewhere between a sigh and a gasp, because he's had nice kisses and enjoyable kisses and kisses that were exciting because they were secret and illicit, but he's never been kissed like  _this_ , like they have all the time in the world and all Andrew wants to do with that time is kiss Neil silly until he runs out of breath for good.

When they finally break apart, Neil is trembling and shaky, a giddy feeling like champagne in his chest. Andrew places a few tiny, breathless kisses along the curve of his bottom lip and shifts backward, his gaze heavy and clouded, and Neil jumps slightly when Andrew's fingers touch his hand where it's twisted in the sheets and nudge it open.

“Okay?” Andrew checks. His voice is just a bit rough around the edges and it sends an unexpected thrill down Neil's spine.

“Very,” Neil hums. Before Andrew can pull his hand back, Neil tangles his fingers with Andrew's and squeezes briefly. “That was nice. Really, really nice.”

“Whatever,” Andrew snorts. “Go and make me hot chocolate. You're closer to the door.”

“Will you kiss me again when I come back?” Neil asks cheekily and earns himself a push that nearly sends him over the edge of the bed. Chuckling, he rolls off the rest of the way, and has some trouble getting his legs under him because they suddenly seem forget what their purpose is. Everything in him feels wobbly like jelly and fluffed up like a fresh pillow.

“Abram,” Andrew calls him back softly when he's about to close the bedroom door behind him. Neil sticks his head back in. “Yes,” Andrew says, low and heady, an admission and a promise. Neil bites his lip, but the grin still spreads.

“Good,” he says, feeling happy and light. “Cream or marshmallows?”

“Both.”

“And sprinkles?”

Andrew sighs. “Get your ass to the kitchen and leave me alone.”

“But you _like_ me,” Neil smirks. “You want to kiss me and – things.”

“Your dirty talk needs work,” Andrew mutters, half muffled by the pillow, and Neil laughs. Definitely sprinkles, he thinks. And some chocolate syrup as well.

*

The next day, Neil wakes up with kiss-swollen lips and hair pulled every which way by hungry hands. He stifles a grin in his pillow and lets the by now familiar noises of the house settle around him like a second blanket. Andrew is still asleep beside him, his bed hair rivalling Neil's own. For a while, Neil just lies there and watches Andrew's face in the morning light, cataloguing every pillow crease and freckle, the length of his lashes, the arch of his brow, the jut of his lips. He wants to reach out and trace every feature, but he's just as content to keep his hands to himself and look his fill instead.

Muffled voices drift through the closed door. The others must be up already. Someone finishes in the bathroom, footsteps pad across the landing, then there's a moment of silence and a cough.

“Do you think we should wake them?” Nicky says, sounding cautious. “They don't usually sleep so late.”

“Maybe they're not sleeping,” Erik suggests, amusement in his voice.

There's a low curse and a giggle, retreating as the footsteps fade away from their door and down the stairs. When Neil looks up, Andrew's eyes are open.

“Hi,” Neil whispers, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Morning.”

“I'm going to kill Nicky,” Andrew mutters.

“Kill him with suspense,” Neil says. “Let's just stay in bed all day and see how long it takes him to come knocking.”

“As if you can stay still for that long,” Andrew scoffs. “Junkie.”

“I could if you made it worth my while.”

“Go brush your teeth,” Andrew grumbles, sliding down further underneath his blanket and glowering at Neil over the top. “You have morning breath.”

“How do you know that? You haven't kissed me yet,” Neil grins.

“Everyone has morning breath, Josten, now get out of my sight.”

Since Andrew is being difficult, Neil decides to go for a run after all. He doesn't pay attention where he's going, too busy thinking about Andrew and kissing, and nearly ends up getting lost. He takes a shower when he gets back, replies to a few texts from Matt and Dan, avoids Nicky's curious looks, and shamefully remembers that he'd promised to cook dinner the night before, so he makes a big batch of chicken casserole for lunch and throws together a fruit salad for dessert, which Andrew only agrees to eat with plenty of ice cream.

After lunch, everyone settles in the living room in various states of drowsiness, the TV on in the background, Erik and Andrew reading in the two armchairs, Nicky playing a game on his phone, and Neil and Aaron draped listlessly over the bean bag chairs, when the doorbell rings.

There is a tense moment, then Aaron and Nicky jump up at the same time.

“I'll get it,” Aaron snaps.

“But -”

“I said I'll get it.”

Nicky can't help trailing after him anyway, and a few minutes later, Renee brings Katelyn into the living room.

“Hello, everyone,” Renee smiles, sliding a snow-dusted woolly hat from her hair. “Merry Christmas! Hello, Erik, nice to see you again. How was your flight?”

“Long,” Erik says, getting up to shake her hand. “Merry Christmas to you, too. I like your sweater.”

Renee beams down at the knitted rainbow wool monstrosity she's wearing. “Stephanie made it for me. I tried my hand at crocheting this year, but I fear I'm better off sticking with embroidery, to be honest. Erik, this is Katelyn, I don't think you two have met.”

Katelyn shakes Erik's hand and wishes everyone a merry Christmas, one of Aaron's arms wound tight around her hip. She seems cautious, but when Andrew doesn't so much as glance up from his book, she starts to relax against Aaron's side, and then Nicky suggests making coffee and Katelyn and Aaron follow him gratefully into the kitchen. Renee ambles over to where Andrew's sitting and perches on the side of his armchair.

“Have a good Christmas?” she asks. Andrew grunts in response, though Neil can see his eyes flicker briefly over to where Neil's made a semi-comfortable nest of his bean bag. Something warm shivers through his stomach.

“Shall we go, then?”

Andrew doesn't respond until he's finished reading his page. He's squinting and holding the book up close to his face, but his reading glasses are nowhere to be seen, and Neil wonders if he imagined them that first time he stayed over and slept in Andrew's bed. He hopes he didn't.

“Where are you going?”

“Sparring session,” Renee says when Andrew tosses his book down and walks out without a word. “You're welcome to join us, Neil. We use knives today, but I can teach you the basics, if you want.”

The warm feeling in Neil's stomach turns instantly cold. He manages to croak out something resembling a “no thank you” and Renee nods and accepts this without protest. Neil stays in his bean bag even after she and Andrew have left and Erik has joined the others in the kitchen, dimly listening to their chatter and laughter. He feels like a dead weight again all over. The thought of Andrew handling knives, of Renee attacking Andrew with knives, makes his mouth taste sour and his spine crawl.

He goes for another run.

When his legs start trembling and his lungs are smarting from the cold, Neil slows down and pulls his phone out of his pocket. He calls Matt, who is spending Christmas with his mother and Dan in California, and Matt picks up at the second ring, background voices cutting off like he's just gone into a different room to take the call.

“Neil! What's up? How are things at the monsters' house? Has anyone been stabbed yet?”

“I don't think so,” Neil says slowly. “Aaron's girlfriend came over though, and Andrew went out sparring with Renee.”

Matt laughs. “Probably a wise idea. Don't worry about Renee, she can kick his ass if she needs to.”

“Right,” Neil says. “How's Dan?”

“Good, good,” Matt says, “she and my mom are getting along creepily well. My mom's offered to teach her how to box. I don't know what's worse, the fact that my girlfriend's ditching me to hang out with my mom, or the fact that my mom's ditching me to hang out with my girlfriend.”

Neil sinks down on a frozen park bench, pulls his knees up and listens to Matt talk about their Christmas tree and his mom's new dog and Dan's ideas to host a fundraiser so they can start offering boxing lessons at the local youth centre where she volunteers. He doesn't feel much like talking, and Matt seems to sense this, because he fills the silences for them and keeps his questions to a minimum. Once he's updated Neil on everything he missed since the last time they saw each other at the Foxhole, though, Matt's tone turns serious.

“Hey, man, are you okay? Really?”

“Yeah, I'm fine,” Neil says, chewing on a fingernail. “I... Andrew kissed me.”

There's a pause, and then Matt says, slowly, “and that's... a new thing?”

“Um,” Neil says. “yes. Yes? Why?”

“Oh, Neil,” Matt sighs, and Neil can hear the milky-soft edge of a smile in his voice. “Andrew's been crushing on you since day one.”

“He has not,” Neil says, voice flat with disbelief. “I'm pretty sure _crushing_ is not a part of Andrew's behavioural repertoire.”

“What would you prefer? He's had his eye on you? He's been pining after you? He wants to get in your pants? He -”

“Alright! Stop,” Neil begs, his face prickling with heat. He puts his forehead on his knees and takes a deep breath. “I didn't know,” he mumbles. “No one's ever been interested in me like that before.”

“How do you know?” Matt says. “Maybe there were plenty of interested people, and you just didn't realise. Look, all I'm saying is, this doesn't exactly come as a surprise. In fact, I'm pretty sure you just won Allison a small fortune.”

“Is there anything you don't bet on?” Neil mutters.

“If you _can_ bet on it, we probably _have_ bet on it at some point,” Matt laughs, then sobers again. “So, what about you?”

“What about me?” Neil asks, just to be a pest.

“Are you attracted to Andrew?”

“I'm not attracted to anyone!” Neil exclaims, distressed, and a nearby crow looking for food squawks indignantly back at him. He is briefly reminded of a grumpy Andrew in the mornings, with his hair sticking up and his t-shirt rumpled and sleep-soft. “Okay, maybe I'm attracted to Andrew a little bit,” he murmurs sullenly, sliding down further on the bench. “I don't know. I've never been attracted to someone before. How does that even work?”

“Neil,” Matt says, “don't worry so much about it. He likes you. You like him. He obviously wants to kiss you, and I'm assuming you want to kiss him, too. If you're both into it, cool. If it turns out that doesn't work for you after all, be honest about it and move on.”

“Okay,” Neil whines.

“And don't forget to practice safe sex,” Matt adds, cackling when Neil makes a noise very similar to the squawking crow earlier. “Sorry, Dan made me say that. She's right, though. Always use a condom!”

“Dan?” Neil asks, slightly horrified that she's heard at least part of their conversation, though he knows that Matt probably would have told her everything later, anyway.

“Hey, foxling,” Dan sings into the phone. “Cheer up, it could be worse, you know. Could be Kevin. Oh, great, now I've grossed myself out.”

“Kevin would criticise technique and rate kissing performance on a ten-point scale afterwards,” Neil says, the beginnings of a grin twitching at the corner of his mouth. “He probably needs XXL sized condoms for the stick up his ass.”

Dan shrieks with laughter, tells him he's delightful and hands the phone back to Matt, who chides Neil for saying such mean things about the great Kevin Day, barista extraordinaire, backbone and sole heir of the Foxhole empire.

“Wait, what?” Neil asks.

“Oh, Kevin is Wymack's son,” Matt says. “Didn't you know?”

“Fuck, no,” Neil says, shaking his head. “That's mind-boggling.”

“Mind-boggling,” Matt echoes delightedly. “You're so cute, Neil. That's why Kevin came to us after the incident with Riko. He's been crashing at Wymack's and Abby's place ever since. No idea how they put up with him, mind you, but I suppose Andrew's lot takes him out drinking whenever he gets too annoying.”

“Wymack and Abby live together?” Neil asks weakly.

“Oh, Neil,” Matt sighs. “You have a lot to learn, young padawan. Are Andrew and Renee back yet?”

“I don't know, I went for a run and I'm still at the park.”

“Oh, so that's why your teeth are chattering,” Matt says dryly. “Go home, Neil. Maybe your boyfriend can warm you up with some tender smooching.”

“Shut up, he's not my boyfriend,” Neil grumbles.

“Whatever you say,” Matt laughs. “See you soon, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Neil says and hangs up. He really is shivering by now, so he unsticks himself from the icy bench and jogs back to the house, where Nicky lets him in with a worried look at his damp clothes and soaked-through sneakers. The sound of voices and the smell of leftover chicken casserole hangs in the air and Neil notes Andrew's boots in the corner as he kicks off his own shoes and hangs his jacket up to dry.

“Where've you been?” Nicky asks, frowning. “You were gone for ages. Renee and Andrew have been back for an hour.” He leans in close to whisper conspiratorially: “Katelyn's still here. Andrew's... well, he hasn't tried to kill her yet. Definitely an improvement over the last few times they were in the same room together.”

“Great,” Neil says half-heartedly. “I'm going to take a bath.”

“What about dinner?”

“Not hungry,” Neil says, his stomach still churning nervously, and goes upstairs to run himself a bath. When he comes out, wondering if he can borrow Andrew's laptop and watch one of the DVDs Allison bought him, he's waylaid by Andrew in the doorway, stepping into his space.

“Where were you?”

“Out running,” Neil shrugs. “How was your sparring session?”

Andrew's eyes roam his face as if trying to find an answer there that Neil's hasn't given. He jerks his chin toward his bedroom and Neil follows, and the moment he's closed the door behind him, Andrew is crowding him up against it, arms braced on either side of Neil's head.

“Yes or no?” he murmurs, gazing at Neil's mouth. Neil swallows.

“Yes.”

“Keep your hands to yourself,” Andrew instructs, before leaning in to kiss him, slow and hungry, expertly taking Neil apart with his mouth while still keeping the rest of their bodies separate. Neil feels oddly safe with Andrew pressing him up against the door like that, and he pushes the palms of his hands flat against the wood, sighing into the kiss. It's over too soon, Andrew turning abruptly away and leaving Neil dazed and leaning against the door to keep his knees from giving out under him.

“Give me your phone,” Andrew says. Neil fumbles with it in his pocket and hands it over, and Andrew types something into it, then tosses it back. “Next time you want to disappear, you text me first.”

There's a new number in Neil's contacts, above Allison, Dan, Matt, Nicky and Wymack. Agent Browning's number isn't in there, but Neil has it memorised, and Wymack also gave him Abby's number in case he was ever unavailable and Neil needed anything, though Neil hasn't bothered to program it in yet. His stomach roils at the sight of all these names. He's not used to tying himself down like this.

Once he's blinked away the brief haze of anxiety, he notices that he has a new text message from Matt. It reads _go get it champ_ and there's a lipstick print emoji beside it. Neil feels his face heat up and fervently hopes that Andrew didn't see a preview of that message when he programmed his number in.

 


	7. (Un)Happy Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil has to go back to his own apartment after New Year's, but there is ice-skating to look forward to, and then Andrew pays him a visit when Neil calls in sick on Nathaniel Wesninski's birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Neil has a nervous breakdown on his birthday, so there are some nightmares/flashbacks/panic attacks.
> 
> Also, a heads-up: there is a lil bit of sex later in this chapter (safe, consensual & everyone's of age).

Much to Neil's continuous surprise and delight, the kissing keeps happening, and it doesn't get any less exciting than the first time. On the contrary, by the time the last day of Neil's stay at the cousins' house rolls around, the moment Andrew so much as looks at him when they're alone, Neil's stomach feels like he just missed a step going down a flight of stairs. They spend most of New Year's Eve making out in Andrew's armchair, Neil sitting in Andrew's lap and trying not to flinch at the fireworks that sound like guns in his head. He keeps Matt vaguely updated via texts, gets an all-caps congratulatory message from Allison, who heard about it from Dan and who insists on taking Neil shopping again with her winnings after she comes back, and Renee drops by once more to act as a buffer between Andrew and Katelyn and briefly squeezes Neil's shoulder with a knowing smile and an approving nod. Neil isn't sure what to make of this, and then Nicky catches him and Andrew kissing in the kitchen one night when he comes home from a shift at Eden's Twilight and Andrew is sitting on the counter with both of his hands in Neil's hair and the kettle is burbling so loudly neither of them hear the front door.

“Oh my god! Ohh my god,” Nicky breathes, slapping a hand over his own mouth as if trying to keep himself quiet. “Shit, oh my god, I didn't see anything, forget I was here, I'm – sleepwalking, I'm gonna sleepwalk right back to bed, I was never here. Oh my god.”

He makes a few flaily motions in the air and practically bolts to his room. The kettle clicks off in the silence that follows.

“Well, shit,” Neil sighs. Andrew's thumb is still stroking the hair behind his ear.

“One of these days I'm going to cut his tongue out,” Andrew says idly. “Make your fucking tea, Josten, I don't want to sit around here forever.”

“Someone's eager to take me to bed,” Neil hums, pouring water over his teabag. He takes a spoon, mashes the teabag up against the side of the mug a few times and pulls it out, discarding it in the sink. Andrew snorts.

“I'm eager to get as far away from Nicky as possible.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Neil sings, grinning, and adds a generous splash of milk to his tea before following Andrew back upstairs to the privacy of Andrew's bedroom.

The next day, Neil gets up early and packs his duffel bag while Andrew's still stubbornly asleep. He checks his mp3 player, which has acquired three new playlists since yesterday morning, a sweet little thrill in his stomach when he sees that one of them is simply titled  _y/n_ . He leaves a cup of coffee on Andrew's desk, makes sure he hasn't forgotten anything in the living room, and goes to join Dan and Renee for the first shift at the Foxhole, which is still sleepy and a little bit chilly after its holiday, though it warms up quickly enough during the lunch rush.

It isn't until Kevin and Matt come in to relieve them that Neil remembers he's meant to go back to his apartment today. He gets his duffel bag from Wymack's office, sticks his head in the kitchen to say hi to Abby, who makes him accept a Tupperware box of leftovers, and bumps fists with Matt and Dan on his way out. The thought of his cold, empty apartment is depressing as hell, so Neil takes a circuitous route, picks up some groceries on the way, and doesn't even take off his jacket when he finally gets home, turning the heating up all the way after he's let in some air. He puts his groceries away, dumps his laundry in a corner, and goes for a run before the claustrophobic feeling of being back in this lonely place can catch up to him again after a week of sharing a house with three other people.

He pushes too hard and his legs are shaking by the time he gets back. He has to stop halfway up the stairs because he feels dizzy, still gulping air into his burning lungs, and when he reaches his apartment, he has to sit on the floor in his kitchenette and drink a whole bottle of water, not caring when it runs sloppily down his chin and front. His phone vibrates on the counter and he flinches. He has several text messages from Nicky, who wants him to ask Andrew to go ice-skating with them at the weekend, and one from Andrew informing him that he left a t-shirt at their house, phrased as a complaint about having to do Neil's laundry.

Just when he's about to type out a shaky reply, his phone buzzes again with a call from Nicky.

“Why do you never reply to my messages, Neil?” he whines when Neil picks up. “Don't you love me? Have you asked Andrew about ice-skating yet?”

“I just got home,” Neil says, leaning his forehead against the door of the cupboard under the sink. The handle has been screwed in the wrong way around and he prods at it, picking at the uneven parts. “Why do you want Andrew to go ice-skating with you?”

“Because Erik left this morning and I'm lonely and miserable, and Katelyn and Aaron are coming, but it's not the same without you two, come on Neil, I want the whole family there. Please?”

Neil winces as he stretches his left leg and the muscles of his calf seize up painfully. He tries to ease the cramp with his hand, but the muscles only lock up tighter.

“I'm not family,” he says through clenched teeth. “Katelyn isn't family.”

“Of course you are,” Nicky says softly, sadly. “Family isn't just about blood and marriage, you know. Can you at least ask him?”

Neil sighs, and gingerly stretches out his aching leg until finally the cramps begin to subside.

“Alright. I'll ask. No promises, though.”

“You're an angel,” Nicky says, the change back to his usual cheer sudden and disorienting. “You left a t-shirt here, by the way. Andrew's been wearing it all day. I tried to take a picture but he nearly broke my wrist.”

Neil's stomach does something pleasantly weird again, the way it's been doing more often lately, especially when Andrew is around. Neil mumbles a weak “great, see you tomorrow” into his phone and hastily hangs up. He stares at the screen that still shows Andrew's earlier message and swallows before typing a reply. He deletes an _i miss you_ and a failed attempt at bartering – _you can keep it if i can have your fleece hoodie instead_ – and in the end settles, frustrated, on a simple _ice-skating this weekend, y/n?_ before picking himself up off the floor and going to take a shower.

*

The next day, Andrew crowds Neil up against the back door of the Foxhole the moment he steps outside for his lunch break, hot breath ghosting over Neil's face as he asks “yes or no?” and curls his fingers in the front of Neil's jacket. Neil answers by catching Andrew's mouth in a kiss.

He forgets to eat his lunch and earns himself a pointed glance from Nicky when his stomach growls loudly later, but he doesn't regret it one bit.

On Friday, Neil asks Andrew about the ice-skating again, and Andrew sighs and says “fine, whatever,” which may or may not have something to do with Neil's mouth on Andrew's neck. Neil grazes his teeth over the spot he's been kissing and Andrew shivers and shoves his face away with the heel of his hand before taking out a cigarette and lighting it. He looks slightly pink, and Neil hides a smile in his scarf and unwraps his sandwich.

Later, Andrew retaliates by eating a slice of lemon meringue pie draped over the counter while Neil works, sucking bits of fluffy meringue off his spoon with relish, though he leaves most of the lemon filling and barely touches the crust. Neil has to concede he may have been wrong about his assumption that this is Andrew's secret favourite cake, though it might just be Neil's now, for reasons to do with the shape of Andrew's mouth around his spoon.

The next morning, Neil is waiting outside his apartment complex, bundled up against the cold with an overnight bag packed and a travel mug of sweet coffee in his hands. Andrew pulls up haphazardly by the side of the road and Neil gets into the passenger seat, noting that Nicky, Aaron and Katelyn are all squeezed into the back seat, and hands over the coffee with a smile. Andrew's eyebrow twitches, but he doesn't comment, even when Nicky coos and gets an elbow in the ribs courtesy of Aaron.

“Hi, Neil,” Katelyn chirps, “how's Josephine?”

She's taken a liking to Neil's jellyfish ever since Christmas. They had a whole, bizarre late night conversation about dolphins in the cousins' kitchen once, when Neil couldn't sleep and Katelyn was bored of watching Aaron and Nicky play Mario Kart, though Neil hasn't told Andrew about this.

“She's great,” Neil says, twisting around in his seat. “She made friends with the spider in my bathroom the other day. They're bros now. The spider's name is... Hey, Aaron, what's your middle name?”

Aaron looks unimpressed, one of those moments where it's more obvious than usual that he and Andrew are twins. Katelyn giggles and says “Michael,” and Aaron turns that unimpressed look on her instead, though Katelyn seems to be immune.

“Yep, that's it, Mike the grumpy bathroom spider,” Neil says. “He and Josephine didn't get along at first, but then they talked about their issues and now they're real tight.”

The car lurches to an abrupt halt, flinging them all forward, and Neil groans as the seat belt goes taut across his chest.

“We're here,” Andrew says impassively and gets out of the car.

“Asshole,” Nicky mutters under his breath.

Katelyn and Nicky have both brought their own skates, but Neil doesn't have any, so he follows the twins into a store room behind the counter where they can borrow generic black or white pairs in their size. Andrew immediately disappears up a flight of stairs to the bar that looks out over the ice, skates flung casually over his shoulder by the laces, and Neil feels left behind, stumbling clumsily over the rubber mats after Aaron and Katelyn, not really sure how to do this now that he's here. He doesn't have any memories of his mom ever taking him ice-skating as a child, but he has plenty of memories that are attached to the end of a blade not unlike the ones strapped to the bottom of his shoes right now.

He clings to the railing at first, watching Aaron and Katelyn's slightly wobbly attempts at holding hands as they complete their first lap of the rink and Nicky's surprisingly competent pirouettes. A few people squeeze past him, crowding him away from the entrance, and Neil waits until they're gone before he sets a first tentative foot on the ice. The awkward, clunky weight of the skates suddenly feels a lot easier to navigate, and he glides a little, keeping one hand hovering above the railing in case he loses his balance. The further he gets from the entrance, the more confident he starts to feel, and by the time Nicky laps him a second time, skating backward and showing off, Neil has decided to try and put on more speed, and just like that, ice-skating is  _brilliant_ , and fast, and exhilarating; like running, except smoother and colder and a little bit crazier.

He whips past Aaron and Katelyn, nearly making Aaron lose his balance. Aaron swears, but Neil is already halfway down the rink again, narrowly veering around Nicky, who shrieks and then laughs and shouts after him to slow the fuck down before he kills someone, but Neil isn't listening, he is soaring and laughing and  _free_ . What he lacks in technique he makes up for in speed, and that's more or less his entire life summed up in a sentence.

When his legs finally grow tired, Neil slows down and lets his momentum propel him over to where Andrew is leaning against one of the entrances. Flailing a bit, Neil grabs onto the railing and skids to a halt in front of him, breathless and giddy.

“Yes or no?” he pants, looking around to make sure no one is watching. Andrew rolls his eyes and pulls him in for a brief kiss. He tastes faintly like whisky and Neil's lips tingle with the sensation.

“Dutch courage?” Neil grins.

“Shut up,” Andrew growls, and pushes him back on the ice. When he follows, his hands are clenched tight around the railing and he stalks more than glides, his eyes fixed on his feet.

Neil tries skating backwards like Nicky and succeeds in toppling over, but he's back on his skates in a flash, barely aware of the dull ache in his backside that will probably turn into a bruise later. He turns a few lazy circles while Andrew continues to stalk along the side of the rink, then skates up next to him, almost close enough to touch, and holds out a hand.

“Come on, I'll go slow,” he says. Andrew's gaze is colder than the ice beneath their feet.

“Like hell,” he hisses.

“I promise,” Neil says. “Just one lap, then we'll go back to the bar and I'll buy you a hot chocolate.”

Aaron and Katelyn drift past, still not very fast but considerably steadier now, and Aaron smirks when he sees Andrew's death grip on the railing. Andrew's eyes narrow, and then he grabs Neil's hand, holding on for dear life, and takes several deep breaths before he can be persuaded to let go of the railing entirely.

Neil does his best to take it slow. He pulls Andrew along in a leisurely glide, just to the other end of the curve, where they take a little break and Andrew can hold on to the railing a bit more. Then they make their way over to the other end of the rink while Andrew nearly crushes Neil's fingers in his and keeps his gaze firmly on his skates.

“Half time,” Neil announces, squeezing Andrew's hand. Andrew wobbles a little and curses, but Neil steers him further away from the railing and steadies their pace. “Almost there now. Just think of the hot chocolate.”

They make it back to the exit, and Andrew hauls them both off the ice so fast Neil almost overbalances. The sudden resistance of the rubber mats has him tumbling forward a few steps and he reflexively grabs onto the back of Andrew's coat to catch himself, ending up pressed against Andrew's back. They both freeze. Andrew smells like cigarette smoke and warm sweat, and Neil takes a step back and looks down at their still linked hands.

“Okay?”

“You owe me at least two slices of cake,” Andrew grumbles, and pulls him over to the nearest bench so they can unlace their skates and get drinks.

*

Neil doesn't think about his upcoming birthday until he sees a red mark on the calendar in Wymack's office and his heart stops in his chest for a few seconds, before he steps closer and realises that it only indicates a delivery. He traces his finger over the number nineteen, feeling vaguely sick, then tears himself away and gets one of the boxes of takeaway cups that are stacked along the wall to take back into the front room with him.

According to his file – Neil Josten's file – his birthday isn't until March, but Neil can't help tensely looking out for signs that the others are somehow aware of the significance of this day. When Allison takes him out shopping again the week before the nineteenth and gives him another haircut, he half expects her to shout “surprise” at any moment and pull out a present, but she only buys him a new pair of jeans on the grounds that his old ones are “completely torn, and not in any fashionably acceptable way” and gently bullies him into getting them extra fries when they stop for lunch.

The nineteenth is a Thursday. Neil knows when he wakes up in a cold sweat at four a.m. that it will be a bad day, and spends an hour desperately trying to fit all of his belongings in his duffel bag and panicking because he can't decide which of the things to leave behind that he has recently acquired. He's got too attached, everything is weighed down with meaning and memories and the feeling of Andrew's mouth on his. He sits on his mattress, puts his head in his hands and sucks in heaving breaths until it's all too much and he slips into his running shoes, still in pyjamas, and takes off with his jacket still undone, scarf and gloves forgotten.

It's almost seven by the time he gets back, frozen and shaking, his hands too numb to fit the key in the lock. He sits in the shower until the water runs cold and doesn't even wash his hair. Shivering, he towels off and yanks on whatever clothes are at the top of the pile he made earlier, pulls the hood of the sweatshirt down low and gets back into bed with Josephine clutched to his chest. Even though he's stopped running, his heart is still racing.

He has an afternoon shift today, but the hours pass him by and the haze doesn't recede from his brain. He manages to text Dan to ask if someone can cover for him and checks her reply only to make sure that it's affirmative, barely taking in anything else. His phone vibrates again a few times until he turns it off and flings it into a corner, where it lands on a crumpled heap of shirts and slides to the floor.

“Happy twenty-fourth birthday, junior,” he whispers to himself. “Congrats, you made it another year.”

He pulls the blanket over his head and wills his brain to shut down, but all he can see is blood smeared over a mirror and the glowing coils of a dashboard lighter in the dark.

He dozes off at some point, suspended in the merciless nowhere land between memories and dreaming. When he jerks awake for good, it's dark outside and he's lost all sense of where and who he is, and for a long while, the ringing sound that woke him is like an alarm in his head, a last remnant of sleep reaching out from the abyss and trying to drag him back down against the struggling drumbeat of his heart. When his mind stops rapid-cycling through identities and places, timelines and cover stories, he finally becomes aware that the noise isn't a figment of his brain at all, and then it takes him several more minutes to realise that this is what his doorbell sounds like.

His whole body seizes up again and his throat makes a dry keening sound. He doesn't know why anyone would come to his apartment, or why they would keep ringing the bell instead of leaving him alone, or else fucking getting it over with and killing him already. Neil agonises over it for half an eternity, but the doorbell doesn't shut up, and in the end, he decides he might as well get up and let whoever it is in to finish the job. Head pounding, he pulls himself out of bed and over to the buzzer, not even bothering to turn on the light. He doesn't have a weapon, so he grabs a bread knife from the counter and wrenches open the door, but he drops it again the moment Andrew's head appears at the top of the stairs.

“Fuck,” Neil mutters, the knife clattering to the floor. He rubs a hand over his face and considers the sight he must be making; rumpled, sweat-soaked, wild-eyed and shaking, his apartment a dark mess behind him, a knife at his feet. He can't believe he grabbed the shittiest one with the half-molten plastic handle.

“Fever dreams?” Andrew says conversationally, sauntering to a stop just outside Neil's door. Neil shrinks back instinctively and tries to kick the knife out of view, but it only gets lodged between two floorboards and he nearly slices his foot open.

“Why are you here,” Neil mumbles, all the fight draining out of him at once. He is nothing. He is no one. He shouldn't even be alive today, and yet here he is, making a complete mess of it. His mother would kill him herself and call it mercy.

Andrew merely takes him in and sighs.

“Have you eaten?”

Neil blinks. “I... today?”

“Yes, today, you fucking idiot.”

“No,” he admits, feeling queasy and hungry at once.

“Idiot,” Andrew says again, and steps into his apartment, forcing Neil to withdraw further. Andrew hits the light switch, closes the door after him, a bag dangling from his hand, and takes off his shoes while Neil squints against the sudden onslaught of light.

“Well, this is cosy,” Andrew says, surveying the battleground that is Neil's apartment. He walks over to the kitchenette, sets the bag on the counter, and fills his small kettle with water. “Go take a shower,” he tells Neil, voice pitched low but gentle, “you reek.”

Neil looks down at his sweat-stained clothes and agrees.

He washes his hair twice to make up for this morning, leaves his dirty clothes in a heap under the sink, puts on his most comfortable pair of sweatpants and a baggy hoodie and scrubs his teeth until his gums are bleeding. When he comes back out, Andrew has opened a window and changed his sheets for him, there's a bowl of soup in the microwave and a mug of tea on the counter, and his clothes have been folded up neatly, with Josephine sitting on top of his underpants looking slightly squashed but mostly intact. Like a nightmare, Neil's earlier horrors have faded into a slightly clammy remnant of anxious embarrassment, but Andrew only shoves the soup and a spoon at him and tells him to eat. While Neil complies, Andrew leans out of the open window to smoke, then he closes it, turns up the heating, and clears away the empty bowl and mug.

“Was Wymack angry?” Neil asks, his voice rough and quivery. He sits on his mattress with his back to the wall, playing with Josephine's tentacles, and Andrew tentatively joins him since there's nowhere else to sit, though he keeps plenty of space between their bodies.

“No,” he says. “Dan said you were sick. Happens all the time, and Matt covered for you. Why would he be angry?”

Neil swallows and shrugs. He can't look at Andrew, but it means a lot that he's still here.

For a while, they just sit and stare at the opposite wall.

“Thanks for the soup,” Neil whispers.

Andrew looks at him, and suddenly Neil can't avoid his gaze anymore. Slowly, Andrew says: “What do you need?”

Neil thinks about it. “I don't know,” he admits. “Stay?”

Andrew nods, and stays. He makes Neil another cup of tea and one for himself, but Neil doesn't have any sugar and Andrew only drinks half before passing the rest on for Neil to finish. The malty taste of the tea settles him, and Neil focuses on breathing around his sips, in and out, counting in French and German until the pressure in his lungs eases up. His legs feel heavy and painful and his spine is locked up tight, he's tired and wide awake at the same time. The bread knife is still wedged between the floorboards by the door.

“Can I put my head on your shoulder?” Neil asks, fiddling with his cuffs. Andrew sighs, shifts a little closer, and tugs Neil's head down on his shoulder, leaving his hand on the back of his neck, fingers stroking his hair. The lamps are off save for the ones under the kitchen cupboards, and the dim light is starting to make Neil sleepy again. He allows himself to close his eyes and breathes in Andrew's scent. He smells like the coffee shop, like the end of a long day, like home.

“I think,” Neil says hesitantly, “I want to kiss you. May I?”

“Only if you get rid of that thing,” Andrew murmurs, pointing at Josephine. Neil huffs out a half-amused sound and tucks Josephine in the corner by his pillow before leaning in to catch Andrew's mouth in a soft kiss.

They take their time about it, relearning each other's mouths anew. Andrew's fingers keep tracing patterns over the back of Neil's head and neck that occasionally send shivers down his spine. Neil rests his own hands in his lap until Andrew takes one and lifts it to his shoulder, where Neil follows the lines of his muscles under his shirt. His thumb brushes over the skin at Andrew's collar by accident and he can feel Andrew shiver at the touch.

“Sorry,” Neil whispers, withdrawing.

Andrew makes an unhappy noise and tugs his fingers back, sets them on the collar of his shirt where the fabric ends, and Neil lets his fingertips slide just underneath and rub over smooth, soft skin. Andrew's head falls forward, and they breathe together, foreheads touching.

“That thing you said, at Christmas,” Neil whispers.

“You're going to have to be more specific there,” Andrew mutters, eyes closed.

“About what you'd do, to me, even though you hate me,” Neil mumbles. Andrew hums, the hand on the back of Neil's neck tightening slightly, and Neil takes a deep breath and continues: “I'd like you to, if you still want to. But it's fine if you don't. Or I can, I don't know. Do. Something.”

“ _Do something_ ,” Andrew mocks. His eyes open, gold and piercing in the low light, and then he moves his hand and traces Neil's bottom lip with his thumb and says, “you want me to blow you?”

The words send a tingling sensation down Neil's spine. He drops his gaze to Andrew's mouth and nods.

“Yeah. But only if you want to.”

“Don't say stupid things,” Andrew murmurs, then hooks two fingers in the collar of Neil's shirt. “Take that off, yes or no?”

“I – no,” Neil says, swallowing thickly. “Not tonight,” he adds, meaning _maybe another time_ , even though there's no courage left at the bottom of his stomach right now, because he wants to want that one day, wants to give Andrew another piece of himself.

Andrew merely shrugs a little and pushes him backward with one hand until Neil is lying down. Neil settles himself on the mattress while Andrew climbs over him, still maintaining that ever-present sliver of space between their bodies and bracing himself on his arms either side of Neil's head. Neil's neck strains upward and Andrew indulges him, kissing him breathless, and Neil pulls the sleeves of his hoodie down over his hands until none of his scars are visible anymore except for the ones on his face.

“Sweatpants?” Andrew asks, reaching down to tug lightly at the grey material by Neil's thigh. Neil nods and arches his hips off the mattress so Andrew can sit back and pull them down. Once they're off, Andrew kneels between Neil's legs and simply looks, eyes following the bunched muscles of his thighs and calves, taking in scrapes and bruises, coarse hair and pale skin, the jut of bones, the crooked lines of his toes. Neil feels hot and exposed even before Andrew's gaze trails back up and over the outline of his cock in his underwear.

Neil bites his lip. “I've never,” he says nervously, “I don't know what to do.”

“Nothing,” Andrew says. “You can touch my shoulders and above. Don't buck, don't beg, don't call me names, don't pull my hair.” And, his voice softening a bit: “Tell me if you want to stop at any point.”

“Okay,” Neil says. He leaves his hands by his sides for now and watches as Andrew takes a condom out of his pocket and tears open the wrapper. His mouth runs dry at the sight. He is suddenly, awkwardly aware that he hasn't masturbated for a long while, and that he's never actually thought about this before tonight, not even in the abstract, technical, idly curious way he usually thinks about sex when something gets stuck in his mind.

Andrew must see the hesitance in his face, because he sighs and drops the condom on the mattress, still in its wrapper. He leans forward until he can kiss Neil again, the kind of kiss that makes Neil's toes curl in anticipation every time, even though they've never gone further before now. Neil melts into it, head pleasantly full of white noise.

“Yes or no, idiot?” Andrew murmurs against his lips.

“Yes, Andrew,” Neil murmurs back. Andrew regards him closely, checking for signs of untruth, but Neil is sure now. Slowly, Andrew shifts his weight and moves one of his hands down to cup Neil's hipbone through the fabric of his boxers, then rubs the heel of his palm over his erection, making warmth pool in his belly. When Andrew hooks his fingers under the waistband, Neil breathes out a shaky “yes” again, and Andrew kisses him one more time before sitting back and pulling his boxers down. They get caught on one of Neil's feet, but then Andrew picks up the condom and slides it over him with practised ease, and Neil digs his heels into the mattress and forgets about everything else.

“Easy,” Andrew mumbles, nuzzling along the crook of Neil's thigh, one hand massaging the tension out of his muscles, the other still wrapped loosely around his cock. Neil makes himself relax and lets his eyes drift shut, breath catching in his throat when Andrew puts his mouth on him, unprepared both for the sensation and the sight when he opens his eyes again and looks down. Andrew is gorgeous, and lovely, and so, so good at this, and something unbearably fond and grateful swells in Neil's chest and makes it hard to breathe, because Andrew's doing this for him, and it feels like a gift, one of many Andrew has given him.

“Andrew,” Neil sighs, cupping the back of Andrew's head with one careful hand to ground himself. Andrew hums and it knocks the breath out of him all over again, and the next one comes out gaspy and shaking, too loud and too vulnerable, and Neil presses his other hand down over his own mouth to be quieter, but Andrew reaches up and tugs it away.

Somehow, their hands become entwined on the mattress. Neil holds on tight and lets his other drop back down on the pillow next to his head. He's never been quick to come, seeing masturbation as more of a chore than a pleasurable activity, and he isn't really any faster now, but it's – better, easier. It feels like shaking apart.

He makes some more of the gaspy noises, biting his lip hard when he comes, and Andrew holds his hand through it and only lets go to gently tug the condom off after. Neil leaves one arm flung over his eyes and focuses on catching his breath while Andrew gets up and moves to the bathroom, returning with a wet washcloth and a towel for Neil.

Neil cleans himself off a little awkwardly and puts his clothes back on. Andrew pulls him in with a hand on the back of his neck, kisses him firmly, then gets up again to make more tea. The tender, wobbly feeling from earlier is back in Neil's chest and he curls up in a corner with Josephine, watching Andrew moving about in his kitchen.

“Thanks,” he says when Andrew hands over a fresh mug of tea. Andrew continues to stand next to the mattress for a moment, like he's unsure if he's invited, so Neil pats the space beside him and waits for Andrew to settle in.

“Did you want me to, um,” Neil says hesitantly. “Return the favour?”

“No,” Andrew says. “Drink your tea.”

Neil takes a sip, not caring when it burns his tongue.

“Thank you, by the way. That was amazing. You're amazing.”

“Says the guy who doesn't have a comparison,” Andrew snorts, arms loosely folded on top of his knees. “You had an orgasm, it's not fucking rocket science.”

“Rocket science doesn't turn me on,” Neil says, “you do.”

“Does that answer the question of your sexuality then?” Andrew asks, sneering a bit, and Neil puts his mouth on the rim of his mug and thinks about this.

“No, not really.”

“You don't have to decide for one gender, you know,” Andrew says idly. “It's called bisexual.”

“That's not it,” Neil says, struggling to put his thoughts into words. “No one else turns me on. When I think about sex, I'm just – not in the equation, usually. It's not a thing I actively want. I've kissed some people and that was nice enough, but it never really had anything to do with me. With you, suddenly I'm in the picture, too.”

_It's a bit scary_ , he doesn't say.

“I don't understand you,” Andrew growls, soft and frustrated, raking a hand through his hair. The way he says it isn't an accusation, though – it sounds more like an ambition. Neil likes that.

“Guess we'll have to exchange some more truths, then,” he smiles, and Andrew huffs and leans back against the wall.

“Not tonight,” he says.

“Alright,” Neil says easily. “Will you stay, though?”

“You have one pillow, Josten.”

“Yeah,” Neil says, sheepish and hopeful, and bites his lip. “I think there's a spare toothbrush in the bathroom, though. And you can borrow some of my clothes.”

Andrew sighs and lets his head fall back until it hits the wall.

“Fine. But you buy me breakfast tomorrow. Cinnamon rolls, from that café by the park, and coffee.”

“Deal,” Neil grins.

“And that thing can sleep in the bathroom with the god damn spider,” Andrew snarls, stabbing a finger at Josephine. “I'm not sharing what limited space there is with a bunch of tentacles. Next time, you better have a proper bed. This place is more depressing than juvie.”

“You said next time,” Neil smirks. “Is that a promise?”

“Not if you don't get some fucking furniture, it isn't.”

“Why don't we go together,” Neil suggests lightly. “You can help me pick.”

Andrew just rolls his eyes and goes in search of Neil's spare toothbrush. If he takes a little longer in the bathroom than usual, well, Neil and Josephine aren't going to tell.

 


	8. Show And Tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Neil acquires some furniture and a pet, and an unwanted guest from his past threatens to ruin the first signs of spring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: scars and self harm scars; more panic attacks; mention of past violence and rape; tiny bit of violence at the beginning of the epilogue; brief reference to the non-consensual kiss from chapter 4 in the epilogue.
> 
> Also, heads-up for slightly awkward sex. ;)
> 
> I can't believe it's already time to post the last chapter! Thank you all so much for all the amazing feedback, it really meant a lot to me, and I hope you enjoy the last part. I added a small epilogue to make up for the angsty bits toward the end.

January smudges into February, a miserable parade of wet, grey days and endless snow. Andrew drives Neil to the nearest Ikea to buy a bed, and they come out with a cart filled to the brim with things Neil didn't even know he needed, like extra fluffy towels, a refillable soap dispenser, a jumbo box of cupcake wrappers, several more mugs, and new handles for the cupboards in his kitchenette. Neil mostly watches as Andrew assembles the bed and replaces the handles, and they christen the new bed by spending a few hours making out on it that end with Andrew's hand down Neil's pants and a very embarrassing noise, mercifully swallowed up by the new spare pillow.

Both Matt and Dan insist on donating things to Neil's apartment that they swear they don't need anymore, and a few days later, Allison and Renee take Neil to a local flea market, where they pick out several small pieces of furniture for him without letting Neil give any input at all. Both of them haggle expertly with the vendors until the price is down to a fraction of the original, Renee polite and pliant, Allison hard and shining as a diamond, and Neil is reminded of a strange, benign sort of good cop bad cop routine as he stands back and watches. They load everything into Allison's car, and then the girls amuse themselves for a few hours arranging and rearranging everything in Neil's small apartment while Neil makes sandwiches and the old portable radio that Allison insisted on getting him is warbling something jazzy and upbeat in the background.

“So,” Allison says once she and Renee are done. Neil doesn't see much difference to the first few arrangements, but the girls are obviously satisfied with their work, both occupying the tiny couch made of scuffed, dusky pink velvet that they've paired with a small, round Turkish tea table near the window. Renee is balancing the plate of sandwiches on her knee and Allison takes a sip of her coffee and points her mug at Neil. “How are things with Andrew?”

“Um,” Neil says, fidgeting uncomfortably. “Good?”

Allison and Renee share a look and Neil can't shake the feeling that they're having an entire conversation without words.

“Have you talked about whether you're officially dating now? As in, monogamous, exclusive, closed relationship, boyfriend status?” Allison asks, getting right to the point.

“There are other types of relationships that are just as valid, you know,” Renee says.

“Never thought I'd see the day where we're discussing Andrew Minyard's relationship status,” Allison mutters. “Nicky says he's never been interested in anyone in all the time he's known him, just the occasional one-off at Eden's.”

“Well, Neil is quite special in many regards,” Renee smiles, tilting her head to the side and watching Neil, who shrinks further into the bean bag chair that Matt donated to him along with a used television set.

“Are you doing couples stuff for Valentines?” Allison asks casually, wolfing down another sandwich. The sofa is so small that the tip of her ponytail is brushing the floor when she leans her head against the armrest and stretches her legs out over Renee's lap.

“No,” Neil says, rolling his eyes. “I'm pretty sure we're going to bulk-buy chocolate the day after though.”

“Cute,” Allison says.

“What about you and Seth?” Neil shoots back, flicking one of the little boat-shaped sugar cubes at Allison that he bought for Andrew the other day. They're supposed to float on the surface of your coffee, but Andrew only threw him an unimpressed look and proceeded to drown all of his boats with his spoon. Neil still considers it a success.

“Seth and I are probably going to spend the day fucking,” Allison shrugs, and sticks the sugar boat in her mouth. It crunches when she bites down. “Speaking of, have you and Andrew done it yet?”

“I'm not answering that,” Neil grouses, but his cheeks are heating up fast and Allison cackles at the tell.

“Sweet! You just made me more money. I should do this thing professionally. Maybe I'll open up a dating agency. Or one of those horoscope hotlines. Renee, are you looking for a job? You can be my business partner.”

Renee ignores her and smiles at Neil.

“I'm happy for you and Andrew, Neil. You both deserve all the happiness you can get. I hope you continue to find that in each other, whatever shape your relationship takes.”

“Um, thanks Renee,” Neil mutters, feeling off-balance by how genuine her words sound. There's a part of him that feels heavy, too, and sour with guilt, when he thinks of how much Andrew doesn't yet know about him, of the unexplored landscape of scars underneath his shirt, the list of aliases, used and unused, tucked away in the back of his mind.

“Oh, no, look what you've done,” Allison sighs. “He's got that tortured look on his face again. Quick, I need my phone, we have to show him the video of Kevin dancing the Macarena again.”

“You promised Kevin you'd delete that,” Renee says, quirking an eyebrow at Allison, who looks innocent.

“I did,” she says, “I didn't promise I'd do it any time soon, though.”

“I like her,” Neil says, lifting his arm out of the depths of his bean bag and pointing a finger at Allison, who blows him a kiss. “Let me see that video again. I need to imprint it on my brain so I'll never forget the glory of Kevin Day shaking his ass at a camera and falling over.”

“Or the part where he mouths along to the lyrics,” Renee says slyly.

“Or the part where Wymack comes in, does a double-take, and just walks right back out again,” Allison cackles.

They end up watching a best-of of the drunk Kevin videos currently saved on Allison's phone, and then Allison shows them pictures from her trip to Paris and the handful of photos she took at the Foxhole Christmas dinner. Most of them are of the girls, Matt, Nicky and Abby, but she managed a few snapshots of the more elusive guests as well: Aaron looking almost amused at Nicky balancing a red M&M on his nose, Wymack with his arms crossed and a fond look on his face as he surveys his protégés, Kevin in a heated debate with Dan about rugby, Andrew looking at Neil who is laughing at Matt with his temporary tattoos.

“Can you send me these?” Neil asks, sitting on the floor in front of the couch, Allison and Renee bracketing him. Allison ruffles his hair and straightens his hood, which is inside-out.

“Of course, kitten. Hey, we could frame some of these and put them up on your wall. What do you think?”

Neil swallows against the sudden weight in his throat and nods. “That would be nice,” he whispers.

“Tell you what,” Allison leans down to smirk in his ear, “we'll put one of Andrew up by your bed, for when you... miss him a lot.”

Neil buries his face in his hands, but can't help laughing along. The thought of letting these people into his life, hanging their pictures on the walls of an apartment that was completely bare and impersonal just a few weeks ago, makes his stomach feel all hot and twisted up, but in all the good ways.

He's been running all his life. Maybe it's time he learned how to stay in one place.

*

It's purely by accident that Neil ends up staying over at Andrew's on Valentine's Day. They're watching Inception with Renee and Neil falls asleep with his head in Andrew's lap, soothed by the repetitive motion of Andrew's fingers in his hair and the patter of raindrops on the window outside. When he wakes up again, the light drizzle has turned into an epic downpour, all the lights are off, and Andrew is watching Hell's Kitchen with the volume turned down low.

“Time's it?” Neil asks groggily, struggling into a halfway upright position.

“Half past eleven,” Andrew says.

“Oh. Why didn't you wake me?”

“Couldn't be bothered,” Andrew shrugs. “There's no point going home in this weather, anyway.”

“What about Renee?”

“Stephanie picked her up an hour ago.”

Neil walks over to the window and peers outside into the dark. Now that he's awake, the noise of the rain is deafening and he wonders why it didn't wake him up sooner, though he blames it on Andrew's hand in his hair. He yawns and stretches, and his shirt pulls up a little, making him shiver as cool air brushes bare skin.

“Can I sleep in your bed?” he asks and leans his forehead against the window. Aaron is staying over at Katelyn's, but Nicky will have to make his way back through the storm after his shift at Eden's. The thought bothers Neil, but there's nothing he can do, since Nicky has Andrew's car.

“Don't be stupid,” is Andrew's only response.

Neil joins him on the sofa to watch the rest of the show, but he quickly nods off again. Andrew prods him awake and sends him upstairs to get ready for bed. By the time Neil is done in the bathroom, Andrew has followed, and Neil goes to get the spare blanket and pillow that are basically his by now and sits on the bed, twisting the cuffs of his shirt in his hands and waiting for Andrew to get back.

“Will you go the fuck to sleep already,” Andrew says, closing the door behind him. He's wearing fleecy sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, and Neil notices that his armbands are off. In the low light of the lamp on Andrew's desk, the scars on his arms look like barbed wire.

“There's something I want to show you,” Neil says quietly and tears his eyes away from Andrew's arms. There's an ugly sound as he yanks a loose thread off his sleeve. He made up his mind before Andrew got back, but the sight of Andrew standing there with a piece of his own armour off makes Neil unsure if maybe he's pushing things too far.

Andrew stops in front of him with enough space between them that Neil doesn't feel hemmed in. His posture is relaxed and his face looks blank in the calm, content way that Neil is learning to distinguish from Andrew's other equally blank expressions. The fact that Andrew isn't tense makes Neil feel more settled himself, and he holds out a hand until Andrew takes it. Gently, he turns Andrew's palm over, watching for any change in Andrew's expression as his scars catch the light, but Andrew holds his gaze without pulling away.

Slowly, Neil lets go of Andrew's hand and pulls back his own sleeve, aligning their arms. The precise crosshatch pattern that Lola left on his skin is a stark contrast to the layers of cumulative damage on Andrew's arms, the carved lines like tree-rings, marking the years survived.

Neil takes a deep breath.

“You can take my shirt off tonight,” he says, keeping his eyes fixed on the frayed cuff of his sleeve. “I have to warn you, it's not very pretty. But. I want you to.”

“Okay,” Andrew says simply. He waits a few moments so Neil can change his mind if he needs to, but Neil doesn't take back his offer, so Andrew reaches down and takes the hem of his shirt in his hands. Once he's started, he makes it quick, like ripping off a Band-Aid, and Neil is grateful for it, shivering slightly when the fabric peels away from his body and Andrew drops it off to the side.

For a long while, Andrew just looks at him, face betraying nothing.

“Told you it's not pretty,” Neil huffs when it gets too much, crossing his arms protectively in front of his chest. Goosebumps are running rampant on the parts of his skin that aren't ruined beyond repair. The bullet wound on his shoulder aches faintly.

“Idiot,” Andrew mutters. He hovers a hand over the hot iron scar and asks, “what was that?”, his voice pitched so low Neil has trouble making out the words.

“Do you really want to know?” he asks.

“I wouldn't be asking otherwise,” Andrew says.

So Neil tells him. When he's done, Andrew points to a different scar and asks again, and Neil answers, giving Andrew the bare bones of truth without going into detail, naming weapons and damage inflicted, flinching away only from the small, crescent-shaped scar from where his mom hit him with a pair of shears after Neil made the mistake of sharing too much information at his new school. Andrew accepts his silence and moves on.

When most of his scars are accounted for, Neil picks up his shirt again, balling it up miserably against his stomach and curling in on himself. He feels exhausted and he's tired of looking at himself, tired of being in this damaged body. All he wants to do is make himself as small as possible and go to sleep.

“Neil,” Andrew says, firm and grounding as always. “If you need to put it back on, go ahead. But I want to try sleeping like this, with you. Just sleeping.”

Neil chews his lip and tightens his fingers in the fabric of his shirt.

“Okay,” he says. He scoots over and pulls his blanket up to cover him all the way, waits until Andrew has climbed over him and they're lying face to face before reaching out a hand and turning off the lamp on the desk. Then he shifts a little closer to Andrew in the dark, and Andrew shifts closer as well.

“Hi,” Neil whispers when their noses are almost touching.

“Go to sleep,” Andrew tells him, irritation catching softly in his voice like a burr. Neil sighs and moves around to get comfortable, but nothing really works and the sheets feel odd against his bare skin. After the third time he turns back on his side, Andrew grunts in frustration and rolls over onto his back before wrapping a hand around the back of Neil's neck and pushing him down to lie on Andrew's shoulder.

“Now stop fussing, or I'll make you sleep on the floor after all,” Andrew growls. Neil carefully puts his hand on Andrew's chest, over his heart, and closes his eyes. It takes him a while to relax, but the faint scents of soap and cigarettes clinging to Andrew's t-shirt soothe him back into a sleepy state of heaviness, and he buries his nose in Andrew's neck and starts to drift off at last.

*

When he wakes up, he and Andrew are back on their respective sides of the bed, but one of Andrew's arms is resting across Neil's stomach, hand on Neil's hip, and Neil feels warm and fuzzy and doesn't even want to get up for a run.

They both have afternoon shifts today, so Neil makes coffee and brings it back upstairs while Andrew's in the bathroom, slipping back under the still rumpled covers and putting the mugs on Andrew's desk. The car is back in the drive and Nicky's door is closed, which means he's probably still fast asleep. It's raining again, but less violently now, and Neil looks out at the wet, grey sky and sips his coffee slowly.

When Andrew comes back and spots Neil back in bed, he freezes for a second in the doorway. It's only a small tell, over so quickly that Neil wouldn't think much of it if he didn't know better, and Andrew is clearly irritated with himself, because he stalks over and gets in beside Neil without a word of protest.

“Feeling lazy?” he drawls, snagging his mug and draining half of it in one go.

“We have time,” Neil points out. “And I didn't bring my running shoes.”

“It's fucking gross outside,” Andrew huffs.

“Did you want to do anything?”

“I never want to do anything,” Andrew chides. Neil knows that's not quite true, but lets it slide.

“You could do me,” he suggests slyly instead. “I mean, we're already in bed and everything.”

Andrew looks at him, clearly unimpressed by his clumsy come-on, then takes both of their mugs and puts them back on the desk before leaning in anyway.

“Yes or no?”

“Yes, Andrew,” Neil says, rubbing their noses together gently. Andrew kisses him hard, one hand pressed against the back of his head, tasting like sweet coffee, and Neil sighs into the kiss and lets himself be tugged back down until they're lying face-to-face again with the blankets bunched up around their waists.

“Yes?” Andrew checks, his hand at the waistband of Neil's sweatpants. Neil nods, expecting him to move down, but Andrew pushes up under his shirt instead and finds the first scar there like he remembers perfectly where it is, tracing the curved shape across Neil's abdomen with the tip of his thumb. Neil shivers and deepens the kiss.

Slowly, Andrew's fingers trail a haphazard path up Neil's stomach and sides until they reach his nipples. He brushes his thumb roughly over one and the sudden jolt of desire travels all the way down to Neil's groin. It's too much, and Neil tugs at Andrew's arm until he moves it back down to his hip, his breath fractured and desperate against Andrew's lips.

“Still yes?” Andrew asks, giving him a moment to collect himself.

“Yeah,” Neil says shakily. “Andrew? Can I touch you?”

So far, the few times they've done this have always revolved around Andrew getting Neil off. He usually disappears into the bathroom after, presumably to take care of himself, and Neil wants desperately to return the favour and make Andrew feel good the way Andrew always makes him feel good, but he also doesn't want to push.

“Above the waistline, over my clothes,” Andrew says. Neil doesn't ask why, just presses a series of tiny, grateful kisses to Andrew's mouth and doesn't immediately touch him. When Andrew moves his hand down Neil's hip to cup him through the loose fabric of his sweatpants, Neil sighs and rests his palm over Andrew's heart again.

They go back to kissing, and Andrew pulls Neil's pants down over his thighs and starts lazily jerking him off. Neil rubs his hand over Andrew's broad chest and shoulders, warmth twitching in his belly. He can feel Andrew's breath catch slightly when his hand finds the soft swell of Andrew's stomach under his shirt and moves back up to his shoulders in case that wasn't a good kind of sound, but then Andrew shifts under the blanket and their kiss becomes sloppy and unfocused, and when Neil opens his eyes, he sees that Andrew's other arm is at a weird angle, disappearing under the blankets, and there's a small, awkward frown on Andrew's face.

He realises that Andrew is touching himself, and it makes his breath falter in his chest.

With a shivery sigh, Neil puts his hand on Andrew's wrist and Andrew lets go of him at once, eyes fluttering open. With what he hopes is a reassuring smile, Neil squeezes his wrist and wraps Andrew's hand back around his cock, but then keeps his own hand curled around Andrew's so they move together with Neil keeping the pace. Andrew holds his gaze, licks his lips, shifts a little and starts moving his other hand, and the thought that Andrew really is getting himself off at the same time, in the same place, makes Neil's stomach tremble and clench in delight. He wants to remember everything about this moment: Andrew's eyes on Neil's face, the faint pink flush crawling up Andrew's neck and over the tips of his ears, the way his breath keeps tripping up.

“Stop staring,” Andrew mutters, and his voice sounds beautifully wrecked. Neil has to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment and falters in his pace.

“But you look so,” Neil says, whatever he wants to say rushing off in a shaky gasp as Andrew tightens his hand around Neil's cock.

“Shut up,” Andrew says and briefly catches Neil's lower lip between his teeth. “I hate you so much.”

“But you like getting me off,” Neil sighs.

“If only you would,” Andrew grits out.

“Want you to come first,” Neil manages to gasp just as Andrew pulls his hands back abruptly, heaves himself up on his elbow, and rolls them both over so Neil is on his back and Andrew on his knees above him.

“I thought I told you to shut up,” Andrew snarls and leans down to kiss him again. He bats Neil's hand away and resumes jerking him off at an almost brutal pace, and Neil hisses and arches into it, clutching weakly at Andrew's shoulders. He comes with a shudder and a low whine, and Andrew sloppily wipes his hand on Neil's shirt and gets up.

“Where are you going?” Neil pants, feeling sweaty and sticky and boneless. “You haven't -”

“Somewhere I don't have to look at your ugly face,” Andrew snaps, and stalks out. The bathroom door slams shut behind him, and Neil pushes his face into the pillow and makes a sad, disappointed sound.

He strains his ears for any tell-tale noises coming from the bathroom, but the walls are too thick and Andrew is too quiet.

After a long while, the shower turns on. After an even longer while, it turns off again, and still later, Andrew comes back out, fully dressed and looking composed as ever, his eyes vacant and his hair damp. He snatches the packet of cigarettes off his desk and goes downstairs to smoke outside the door.

Neil drags himself out of bed with a sigh and gets cleaned up. He changes the sheets for good measure, puts on one of Andrew's hoodies in a little fit of defiance, and takes their mugs downstairs to make fresh coffee and tea for himself. He grabs a leftover cinnamon roll for Andrew and an apple for himself and takes everything outside to join Andrew on the front steps.

“Hey,” he says. “Okay?”

Andrew flicks him a bored look and takes a bite of the cinnamon roll, holding his cigarette away from the food. They eat in silence and Andrew smokes another cigarette while Neil merely holds his, breathing in the smoke and the cold air.

“This thing,” Neil says quietly, pointing between them. “With us. I think it's nice, and I'd like it to keep being a thing. But only if it works for both of us.”

Andrew is quiet. A car trundles past, upsetting a puddle by the side of the road.

“The thing about nice things,” Andrew finally says, his voice tight and slightly raw, “is that I don't usually get to keep them.”

He looks at Neil like that's a challenge, and Neil desperately wants to make him a promise that he doesn't know how to keep. Instead, he just nods and stays quiet, and Andrew seems to relax a bit. Finally, Andrew grinds both of their cigarettes out under his heel and tugs Neil back inside.

He doesn't say anything, but the kiss he gives Neil says _we're okay,_ and Neil breathes a sigh of relief and gets ready for work.

*

Two days later, Andrew shows up at Neil's apartment on his day off with a large basket tucked under his arm.

“There,” he says, shoving the basket at Neil, “his name's Abram. He's your responsibility now.”

Neil stares at him, baffled, then notices that something is moving inside the basket and nearly drops it in surprise. There's an opening on one side, and when he peers cautiously inside, two curious yellow eyes look back at him, and then a small paw snakes out through the grate and snags in his sleeve.

“Oh!” Neil says, gently dislodging the cat's claw from the fabric of his shirt. “He's the stray from the Foxhole? How did you catch him?”

“Ice-cream,” Andrew says simply. Behind him is an assembly of things – a litter box with a large bag of cat litter, an elaborate scratch post, enough cat food for at least a month, two sets of feeding bowls, and an entire bag of cat toys.

“Did you buy all that?” Neil asks. “Wait, are you saying I should keep him?”

Andrew rolls his eyes.

“He says, like he hasn't been pining after the ugly thing for months,” he mutters under his breath. Then, louder: “I already took him to the vet for a check-up. They gave him some worm treatment and he's a bit underweight, but otherwise he's fine.”

“Um,” Neil says, feeling the familiar flutter of slight hysteria in his chest. “I don't actually know anything about cats?”

“There's a book here somewhere,” Andrew says, unperturbed.

“Mrr,” says the cat, pressing his nose against the grate of his basket. Neil looks down at him and then at the equipment piled on the floor around Andrew and sighs.

“Alright,” he says, “fine. He can stay, if he wants to. But only if he and Josephine get along.”

He doesn't say that having a pet, being responsible for another living being, is like another anchor thrown into the already quite crowded harbour of Neil's new life, like the numbers programmed into his phone, the pieces of furniture in his apartment, like every time Andrew says says “yes” and “Neil” and “stay”.

He's starting to get used to it.

*

Abram settles in remarkably quickly, and all the Foxes come to visit and coo over him under Neil's careful surveillance. Neil dutifully reads the book Andrew got him, despairs over the masses of cat hair that start to cover every surface in his apartment, and nearly breaks his leg chasing Abram on the fire escape when he jumps down from the open window one day and meows pitifully because he can't get back up.

“Your responsibility,” Andrew reminds him every time Neil complains. “I'd have left him there to rot until he figured out how to jump back up.”

Despite the unfamiliar excitement that Abram brings into his life, February seems to stretch on forever. Neil squints at the calendar in Wymack's office and is convinced someone added another week in there somewhere, though he can't figure out where. The weather is still cold and grim, the very last dregs of winter now, sunlight thin like watercolour paint, and the Foxhole's windows are perpetually steamed up from the inside. Nicky reluctantly takes down the heart-shaped fairy lights he put up for Valentine's Day and immediately starts planning an elaborate Easter egg hunt in the backyard that Neil fears will be mandatory for everyone unless they want to listen to Nicky's whining for the rest of eternity.

They celebrate Kevin's birthday by getting Kevin epically drunk, with the result that Kevin shows up at work two days later with a tattoo on his cheek that no one wants to admit to having goaded him into getting. Kevin doesn't seem to mind the tattoo itself, but has one of this infamous rants when Nicky asks what the thing is supposed to be - “looks a bit like a dick to be honest, Kev, but don't get me wrong, it suits you, since you, too, are a colossal dick” - and then gets so distracted monologuing about the history of chess that he doesn't notice Dan locking him in Wymack's office for the rest of his shift.

It's the first day of March, overcast but slightly less oppressively so than the last weeks, and Neil is slumped in the passenger seat of Andrew's car and feeling cautiously optimistic about the future when everything goes to shit again.

“That car's following us,” Andrew says, glancing at a black Sedan in the rear-view mirror and back to the road ahead. He seems calm, but Neil can see the wary tension in the line of his neck, and then his words register, and something snaps taut inside him that has been dormant for too long.

“Shit,” he breathes, and takes out his phone. “Keep driving. Don't go home.”

He holds the phone to his ear, adrenaline thrumming in his veins. For a moment, his vision blacks out, but he forces himself back into the present and waits for Agent Browning to pick up.

“I'm being followed,” Neil says as soon as he does. “We're on King Street, heading north. It's a black, uh-”

Andrew rattles off the car's details and license plate in the space of a blink, and Neil painstakingly repeats it all. His voice sounds tight and strange in his own ears. Agent Browning gives him directions to a nearby parking lot and Andrew veers abruptly right as Neil relays them to him. The black car follows smoothly, and Neil tries to see the driver, but he keeps just far enough back that he can't make out anything except a vague idea of who it could be.

His spine is cold iron. He can't feel his feet for a moment, and hears again Nathan's voice as he contemplates cutting his hamstrings so he can't run away.

When they're almost at the parking lot, Andrew either loses his nerve or gets annoyed with Neil's obvious panic and speeds up. The car behind them falls back. Neil can't see it anymore when they turn left and come to a stop amidst a cluster of other nondescript black cars, some of which peel off right away. Agent Browning comes hurrying over as Neil opens his door.

“We lost him right before the turn,” Neil says, wired and shaking. “I think it was Romero. I couldn't see him properly.”

Agent Browning nods, barks something into an earpiece, and turns back to him. “Here,” he says grimly, handing over a bulletproof vest. Neil's stomach sinks at the familiar weight in his lap. “Get out of the car and into the back of the van. You, too. We're taking you somewhere safe.”

Neil looks over to Andrew, who is still tense, but shrugs and gets out. Neil struggles with the vest for a moment before following, and Agent Browning herds them toward the van, his gaze searching the buildings clustered around the edge of the parking lot. He gets in behind them, slams the door shut and motions for the driver to go.

Neil's leg bounces violently in his seat. He loses sense of direction after a while of aimless driving around. Agent Browning keeps murmuring in his earpiece and Andrew is staring vacantly into space, but his hand comes to rest next to Neil's like a question, and Neil takes a shaky breath and links their pinky fingers. Andrew squeezes, and doesn't let go.

They come to a stop somewhere and the two agents get out.

“Wait here,” Browning tells them and closes the door. A hot, thrumming silence settles around them in the dark interior of the van, the dim overhead light casting an eerie glow over their faces. Neil's breathing is coming in short, wheezy gasps, and Andrew slips his finger out of Neil's and brings his hand up to grab the back of his neck instead and push down.

“Breathe,” he says evenly.

Neil sucks in gulps of stale air. He can smell his own sweat, and his shoulders ache beneath the weight of the bulletproof vest.

“Don't you want to know what's going on?” he chokes out after a while, fingers digging into the burn scar on his cheek.

“I don't care,” Andrew says flatly. Then, slowly, like it costs him something to admit: “You didn't ask after Aaron's trial.”

“That was your business,” Neil mutters.

“And this isn't yours?”

“You got pulled into it,” Neil says, and the panic slams back full force, stealing his breath. It was foolish to stay in the same place for so long. Andrew's hand pushes down mercilessly until Neil has himself halfway under control again.

“My father,” Neil begins, and a shudder runs through him, “was Nathan Wesninski, also known as the Butcher of Baltimore.”

Slowly, hesitantly, he starts to tell his story in rough bits and pieces, circling back and getting lost and starting over, but forcing it out word by ugly word, until it feels less like throwing up dry stones and more like pulling splinters out of an open wound. Andrew listens impassively, not interrupting once, his hand a steady weight on Neil's neck. He doesn't flinch, or pale, or make a sound. He just sits there and watches as all the secrets and lies flow out of him like bile, and when Neil is done, a shaking, sweat-soaked, clammy mess, Andrew leans forward very slowly and thunks their foreheads together.

“You're Neil Josten,” he murmurs, invoking the tried and true magic of the name that Neil picked for himself when his father had only been dead for twenty-four hours. “You're a Fox. You're not going to run anymore.”

Neil makes a sound like a dry sob and gropes around for Andrew's hand. Andrew links their fingers together and keeps his other hand on Neil's neck.

Then, when Neil has calmed down, Andrew says: “Aaron killed my foster brother.”

Neil unsticks their foreheads to look at him.

“Why?”

Andrew takes a moment to shape the words on his tongue and looks vaguely irritated at himself for the delay.

“He raped me,” he says at last, gaze still unwavering, something unbearably tired in the depths of his eyes, which look grey in the light of the van.

Neil swallows down a new, different kind of ugliness and takes a few steadying breaths through his nose, clinging to Andrew's hand.

“I hope Aaron took his time about it.”

“Revenge is pointless, Abram,” Andrew says, shaking his head. “It doesn't change anything. Spite is a much better motivator to stick around.”

“Is that yours?” Neil asks.

“That, and cake,” Andrew says with a tiny shrug. Neil feels like he's either going to laugh or throw up, and since they're still stuck in a dimly lit van in the middle of nowhere, he goes for the former. It is then that the door slides open again, and they both blink in the sudden light, though neither lets go of the other's hand.

“We got him,” Agent Browning says triumphantly. “Caught up to him just outside town. Nathaniel, we're going to relocate you. We don't know if he was acting on his own, and he's not talking so far. It's too dangerous for you to -”

“No,” Neil says, loud and clear. “I'm staying here.”

“But -”

Neil just smiles and shakes his head.

“I'm done running. Take me home,” he says, and lets Andrew hold him up as they exit the van. The sun's come out, and Neil takes a deep breath and thinks he can detect a hint of spring on the cold air at last.

“Actually,” he murmurs into Andrew's neck when Agent Browning has reluctantly gone to sort out transportation, “I do feel like running. But the kind where I come back after and take a long hot shower.”

“Junkie,” Andrew says, and tugs on his hand.

 

_**Epilogue (a few months later)  
** _

 

Nicky has gone to work and Andrew is at the gym with Renee, and Neil doesn't realise that this means he is alone in the house with Aaron until he leaves Andrew's room to make himself a cup of tea and gets slammed up against a wall in the hallway for his trouble.

His first thought is all knives, but his second thought is the realisation that he could easily twist out of Aaron's grip if he made the effort, and he decides to wait this out and see where it's going, even if the plaster digging into his cheek is uncomfortable as hell.

“I'm only going to say this once,” Aaron snarls, pressing up close to Neil's back. “If you hurt my brother, if you so much as lay a single finger on him, ever, I'm going to make you regret ever running away from daddy dearest.”

They've all heard Neil's story by now, because Neil wasn't going to endanger them all by continuing to work at the Foxhole after the incident with Romero, but somehow they talked him into staying anyway. Dan pointed out that it didn't matter where Neil worked, there would always be that danger, and at least the Foxes know how to handle themselves. Neil thinks he might have to teach Aaron how to properly hold someone down, but at least the grip on his wrist and the elbow in his back are pretty painful by now.

“Interesting,” Neil manages to choke out against the roughness of the plaster. “So you do care about him. Could've fooled me.”

He grins, and Aaron makes a disgusted noise and then smacks Neil's head against the wall so hard he sees stars for a moment. When the pain has finished echoing sickly through his body and his vision has cleared again, Aaron has let him go and is walking back toward his room.

“You know, maybe you understand better now why Andrew doesn't like Katelyn,” Neil merrily calls after him. Aaron glares and gives him the finger, and then his door slams shut behind him and the house is quiet once more.

Abram sticks his head around the doorframe to see if the air is clear now before hopefully darting into the kitchen. He doesn't like being alone, so Neil takes him with him whenever he stays over at the cousins' house, much to Aaron's chagrin and Nicky's continued delight. The downside is that Nicky keeps feeding him treats whenever Neil isn't looking.

“Mrrrow,” Abram calls from the kitchen, as if he can hear Neil thinking about those treats.

Neil sighs, rubs gingerly at his sore forehead, and goes to make that overdue cup of tea.

When Andrew comes back, he takes one look at the bruise and crowds him up against his bookcase, hands wrapping around both sides of his jaw and tilting his face this way and that as he inspects the damage. It doesn't look as bad as it feels, and it doesn't feel nearly as bad as a lot of other things Neil has felt in his life, so he hasn't even bothered to ice it, but maybe he should have, because Andrew's eyes are narrowing dangerously.

“Funny story,” Neil whispers. “Your brother gave me a shovel talk earlier.”

“Hilarious,” Andrew says flatly, and it takes Neil a moment to realise that Andrew doesn't believe him.

“Wasn't a joke,” Neil grins. “That means I'm officially part of your family now. There's no getting rid of me anymore.”

Andrew presses his thumb on the bruise to make him wince, and then crushes their mouths together in a fierce kiss, presumably to make him shut up. At Neil's enthusiastic response, Andrew's hands wander from his face down to the hem of his sweatshirt, and Neil takes them and shoves them under the loose fabric, sighing into the kiss. His skin still feels rubbed raw from last night, when Andrew took hours to explore him with his mouth and fingers, and every touch tingles on the verge of overstimulation.

“Are they always like that?” Neil hums when Andrew gets distracted kissing down the side of his neck.

“Who,” Andrew grunts, pinching a nipple.

Neil needs to catch his breath, then says, “Nicky and Aaron, when you... when... about you dating.”

Andrew looks up, eyes narrowed again, his mouth an untidy pink.

“Why,” he says slowly, suspiciously, “what did _Nicky_ do?”

“Ah,” Neil says.

“What. Did. He. Do.” Andrew's hands disappear from under his shirt and Neil mourns the loss of them, catches them before they can bunch into fists and kisses the palms open, nuzzling into them and rubbing soothing circles with his thumb.

“Nicky's just... Nicky. But, well, he kissed me,” he confesses, murmuring the words against Andrew's skin as if to soften the blow. “At the Christmas party, after you'd gone to drive Renee home.”

“I'm going to skin him,” Andrew says. His voice is pitched so low it sends a shudder down Neil's spine.

“Don't,” he says, hiding a smile in Andrew's palm. “We need him to make sure we all have regular meals and to distract Aaron when you want to do that thing to me that makes me loud.”

Andrew's pupils dilate, and he crowds Neil up against the bookcase again, like Neil knew he would.

“ _That thing_ ,” he mocks, lips a hair's breadth from Neil's. “Yes or no?”

Desire ripples through Neil's belly like sunlight through trees. He places Andrew's hands back on his hips and arches his spine, wraps both arms around Andrew's neck and brings them even closer together.

“Yes,” he says on a shivery sigh.

Andrew catches him in a kiss and rakes his hands down Neil's thighs, digging his fingers into the muscles until Neil yelps. Then he slides his hands around and pushes his legs a little further apart, enough that he can fit in between them, tipping him backwards until he's leaning flush against the bookcase with most of his weight.

“You're wearing my sweatpants,” Andrew growls, trailing his thumb over Neil's erection.

“And nothing underneath,” Neil grins, breathless and impatient, and rolls his hips. Andrew bites down hard on his lower lip, shoves his own trousers down until all that's left is the flimsy fabric of his black boxers, and lines them up so he can grind against Neil, making him gasp.

“God, Andrew,” Neil whispers. He lets himself be loud, half to spite Aaron and half because it makes Andrew look at him like _that_. He loves feeling that Andrew is hard too, loves the tiny hitches in the steady pattern of his breathing when Neil rubs himself against him, loves the way Andrew presses him into the bookcase and bares his neck for Neil to lick and suck on and kiss, loves the way he shudders when he comes. On the good days, Andrew is so easy to get off, always more than ready by the time he allows himself to let Neil touch him, and today he barely needs more than a couple of thrusts until he tenses up and shudders against him, and then goes all soft and heavy in Neil's arms.

“Fuck,” he mutters into the crook of Neil's neck, his voice scattered and loose. “Fuck you.”

“You had an orgasm,” Neil whispers cheekily, nudging his side, “it's not rocket science. Get me off too?”

“What will you do if I don't?” Andrew challenges lazily, still leaning against him.

“Climb into your cousin's bed and hope he's in a more giving mood when he comes home later,” Neil grins, earning himself a pinch of his waist.

“I really will skin him,” Andrew grumbles, finally unsticking himself from Neil. He looks beautifully tousled and his ears are still pink, which Neil finds infinitely endearing, but he's not so careless with his life as to ever mention it within hearing range of Andrew.

“Then who will make us breakfast when you keep me in bed all morning?” Neil teases. “Who will buy up all the Easter chocolate on sale when you're home with the flu? Who will keep Katelyn from trying to talk to you when she comes round, who will -”

“Fine, shut up,” Andrew snaps. “He doesn't need all of his limbs to do that, though.”

“Mm,” Neil hums, “I do so like it when you get all jealous and possessive.”

To illustrate his point, he takes one of Andrew's hands and puts it over his erection, pushing up against the heel of his hand. Andrew squeezes once, hard, and lets go again.

“I hate you.”

“Only ninety percent of the time,” Neil reminds him. “The other ten percent, you want to lick meringue off my -”

“Fuck you,” Andrew says again, but puts his hand in Neil's pants at last, and Neil counts it as a victory and lets it go.

It seems he's adjusting remarkably fast to having a boyfriend, but then that has always been a particular strength of his, and at least this time it's more of a permanent adjustment, as Aaron proved with his little speech earlier.

Surprisingly, Neil Josten is turning out to be a tenacious little shit, and very hard to get rid of once he's actually set his heart on staying.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is appreciated. If you want to chat about all things Foxhole Court, feel free to visit me at annawrites.tumblr.com and say hi!


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